That Last Year in Vegas
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Taking Sara's comment about her last year in Vegas, this is a story of events leading to her departure that was not told on screen, but in the quietness of the home shared by Sara and Gil. All GSR, a little sweet smut, enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: While we know the outcome, here's our story based on Sara's "last year in Vegas" remark. Yes, spoilers if you haven't seen any episodes since Fannysmacking and Greg's beating, but who would that be? We don't own CSI or any of its characters, just having fun! _

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 1**

Dim light reflected off smooth surfaces in the dark room picking its way along the mirror, a door knob, the vase holding flowers, something he could not recognize. The television in the other room could not be heard but its faint light was enough to cause him to toss covers aside and get up. He raked a hand through his hair—it wasn't the television keeping him awake—it was who was missing from his bed.

Gil Grissom made his way to the kitchen, quietly walked up the few steps to the living room to find his bed mate.

"Come to bed, honey."

Sara was curled on the sofa staring at the muted the television. "I can't sleep—every time I close my eyes I see Greg."

He waved his hand and she leaned forward so he could slide beside her. "He's going to be okay. Greg's resilient; he'll snap back." Grissom sighed and wrapped an arm around his companion. She snuggled against his chest and he relaxed.

"You feeling okay?" He asked because earlier she had been vomiting in the bathroom.

Sara rubbed her belly. "Yeah. I nearly threw up at the scene—right in front of Sophia and the medics—when I saw Greg. He looked so broken." She wiped her fingers across her cheek. "He—he couldn't see, Gil—his eyes were so swollen." She hiccupped, softly, before continuing, "He had guarded his hand—his fingers—I almost cried when he started telling me to collect…" She almost sobbed, but caught herself with closed fingers against her mouth.

He took her hand. "Come on, let's go to bed. I'll rub your back or read to you—you don't have to close your eyes."

She went with him. He stopped in the kitchen long enough to pick up an orange. Let her stretch across their bed and then he started to massage her back. Their co-habitation situation was new—not new to them—but the space was new and in the process of becoming theirs. While she had not refused, she had postponed moving into his previous place until one day he realized he was spending more time in her small apartment than in his own townhouse.

"Let's move," he suggested. She had looked at him with wide eyes.

"Move? Where?"

"To a new place—for us—get us a dog and decorate a place to our liking."

Sara's eyes remained wide; she tried to stammer but nothing intelligible came out.

"We can do it—this is a big town—find a place we like. What's your dream?" He had pulled her onto her bed because that was the only comfortable piece of furniture the woman owned. "House with a fenced yard? A place for flowers? Maybe a place for—I don't know—a little swing or a place to play?"

They were so much in love, so restrained while working, so infatuated and besotted with each other that nothing was ever a "no" and before too much time had passed, his townhouse was sold, and Sara found "the perfect place"—no picket fence, no swing in the back yard—an old building undergoing a rehab as condos, near work, near a park, a workout area on the roof, and inside parking. And if it was perfect for her, it was perfect for him.

Telling him she was living a fantasy, Sara worked hours on making a home for them. He would pull a double, arrive home to find her working on assembling bookcases or going through boxes of books—things he had not seen in years—and placing them around their new house. They would fall into bed, exhausted, but obsessed with making love. And excessively pleased with themselves for keeping their relationship very private and extremely exclusive; only one other person knew they were living together.

On their bed, Grissom flattened his palms sliding them along her back, pressing his thumbs against her spine, thinking she was too thin. He massaged her shoulders gently moving fingers along her neck, outward to her arms.

She turned her face toward him. "I should be doing this to you." She lifted her arm and circled his neck pulling him beside her. "This hasn't been a good day for us," she whispered.

"No, it hasn't—did you know Greg had never told his parents he wasn't working in the lab?"

They rearranged positions so they were facing each other; he kept one hand on her arm, light touches of his fingers as he moved his hand. She put her head against his shoulder tucking her face against his chest, feeling the softness of his shirt, smelling the unique scent of his skin.

"His mother freaked out when he was hurt in the lab," Sara said. "So I'm sure she is totally bonkers over this. Poor Greg!" She felt his lips against the top of her head as he pulled covers around them, wrapped arms around her and, as quietness settled in the room, his breathing became the soft, regular breathing of sleep.

It took a bit more time for Sara to sleep. Some time she had to bite her tongue or pinch herself to know she was really living this life and then she would smile. Nothing had prepared her for this; she had loved Grissom for years and he had, for most of that time, ignored her unconcealed efforts to get him to respond to her, until she had almost given up.

She stayed still, wrapped in his arms as he slept. Early one morning he had taken her home—and one of them had changed—no, she thought, they had both changed, taking very small, tentative steps toward each other until he came early one morning and stayed. Now they were together; she closed her eyes. Now, they knew what to do.

In her sleep, on some conscious level, she felt warm fingers moving along her back, dipping lower to find the cleft separating her backside. A thumb, she thought, sliding, separating, then heat from fingers lifting, caressing her butt before moving a little more between her legs. She shifted to test her dream state; it wasn't a dream when she felt the solid rigid part of the anatomy of the body connected to that hand. She smiled and lifted her leg, resting her knee on his thigh, opening herself to that hand. Before she could utter a sound, his mouth closed on hers, exploring, hot, wet, delving into hers as she responded to him.

The only sounds made were those of skin against silky fabric, of flesh against flesh as they moved together, soft, smooth, supple, firm and solid. Sara's mind flashed to "ravage" as he moved above her—that word was too rough, too abrasive for what was happening. He was taking her, controlling her in a way no one else had ever done. His mouth moved downward, around and over each of her breast in a hungry, searching act. His hands slipped underneath her, moving in the same hot, searching way. She arched, knowing he was between her legs, trying to get her hand to—around—the exceedingly warm erection he had managed to tuck next to her fleshy female folds and was skillfully managing to move against her in a most erotic way.

Between his moist mouth, his pulsating erection, and her growing dampness, he was driving her to complete distraction—and when she thought she could take no more of this intense stimulation, just as she was ready to scream his name, his mouth was back to hers, his hands pushed her butt up, his own hips met hers in a downward thrust, and he was inside, captured, secure, held tightly by her own throbbing muscles. She heard a moan—unsure who made it, just before she gasped and felt smiling lips on hers.

For a few seconds, neither moved. His mouth closed on hers again and he began moving in a slow, rhythmic way that seemed as natural as breathing, but would quickly plunge her into ecstasy. She knew it would not be long as the surge of hormones and endorphins hit her brain, her body shuddered, waves of contractions pulled him into her. He was no longer taking or possessing her; as her own desire reached a crescendo, she knew he was her possession.

_A/N: Be kind and leave a review for chapter 1! We promise regular updates and a complete story in a few weeks!_


	2. Chapter 2

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 2**

When Grissom woke with the warm body curled against his, he knew he had gone to sleep before Sara. He had been so exhausted; she had been so distressed, so concerned and worried about Greg. He meant to feed her the orange, to read to her. His hand found the orange near his pillow and he bit into the peel, just enough to release the scent and a few drops of its juice trickled across his tongue. He placed it near Sara's pillow—he would have a use for it later. And now, he was awake with an exceedingly obvious hard-on uncomfortably encased in his boxers—he pulled Sara closer, shifting his hips and pushing himself out of the convenient slot opening. This, he thought, was the best part of living together and some times she would respond to his desire even as she slept.

He smiled as she snuggled; his hands moved to her backside, underneath the elastic of her pants to her butt. Every time they did this—physically loved each other—he realized he had almost waited too late. Only when she had revealed her darkest secret, become so vulnerable in the telling of this open abyss in her life of unending dread, was he able to realize how much she meant to him. The one person in his life who loved him with unyielding, uncompromising passion, and he had given her—nothing—an aversion akin to antipathy at times.

Sara's leg came over his, resting her knee on his thigh, opening herself to his exploring fingers and to the fiery burn of his erection. He kissed her—knowing he had almost missed this—love, passion, desire—hidden in the everyday context of workplace relationships. The day after she had almost been killed by a lunatic was the day he changed and moved out of his obsession with work to the place he was now.

Her long fingers played in his hair as he kissed her—she kissed him, greedy for more; her eagerness and willingness in the middle of sleep excited him, made him want more of her. She was awake, but neither said a word as he began to explore, closing his mouth over her nipple, sinking against her, keeping his erection outside of her body, moving slowly, using his thumb and finger to stimulate her until she was wet, twisting his hips so she could not reach him. Once she touched him, wrapped those fingers around his penis, he would be gone, unable to fulfill his intention of surfing her into multiple orgasms.

Once he was back to her mouth, his hands holding her butt, her legs moving against his, she made some guttural sound, arched her back, and—this was the part he would never understand—he was inside her, drawn in without conscious thought just as one breathes air into lungs. For a few seconds, he could not move. The sensation of warmth, wetness, tightness against the most sensitive part of his body sent waves of pleasure driven by rhythmic contractions—by stopping movement of his body, he felt the tightening of Sara's rising orgasm, the hardness of her nipples against his chest. He began to move slowly, which didn't last long as throbbing pulsations shot to the end of his penis, and he completely lost conscious control as the euphoria of his orgasm closed out everything else.

When he tried to move, Sara wrapped her arms around his back, her legs entwined around his, holding him tightly. If he had not been able to prop his elbow and bend his knee, he would have crushed her. Gradually, he slipped to her side as she playfully kissed him, her brown eyes soft and dilated—other than a gasp or moan, neither had said a word.

Grissom reached for the orange, bit through the peeling again, and squeezed it enough to bring juice dripping across his fingers.

"Open up," he whispered as he held it above her mouth.

Later, after Sara had showered, after Grissom had returned to sleep, she walked to the dog sitter's to pick up Hank. The experience as dog owners was an on-going learning process for both of them as neither had ever owned a dog. Months ago when they decided to get a dog—she had been the one who researched. Grissom had simply said "Let's go get one at the pound." Being a little more concerned about certain things, including leaving a dog alone for long hours, Sara had found a no-kill shelter, spent hours with the staff and animals and decided on a specific dog before telling Grissom to meet her one morning.

She admitted to him it was a sneaky way to get the dog she wanted, but it also prevented him from adopting five kittens, two puppies and their mother. The boxer was the perfect dog for them, house trained, accustomed to an older owner, past the playful-tearing-up-the-house stage. He did, however, have two negative traits—his name was Hank and he refused all attempts to change his name, cocking his head to the side and looking puzzled as they tried other names. The other was his loneliness while they worked—all of his life he had been accustomed to having a companion during daylight hours, and when his new owners attempted to change his usual pattern of sleep, he had become fretful, whining, and generally unhappy. So now they had a sitter, a wonderful dog person who was helping to reset Hank's internal clock, and understood the night work, the double shifts, their need to sleep. And Hank was happy.

Returning home, she and Hank stopped at the park so he could smell every post and every damp spot along their path. She provided treats when he obeyed her commands, and when she saw Grissom, dressed for work, ambling in their direction, she signaled for Hank to sit and wait for his arrival.

It was hours before their shift, but seeing him, worried look on his face, Sara knew he would be going to work. "What's up?" she asked.

He shook his head at the never ending demands from the lab—if it wasn't a breaking case, it was paperwork or it was meetings. He patted the dog, took the leash from Sara and fell into step with her, letting Hank wander ahead of them.

"It's Ecklie," was his response.

…Greg improved and returned to work; Sara worried, worked, and watched as Greg changed in slight and unnoticed ways. Grissom was burdened and weighed down with mundane, monotonous paperwork and strange or unusual crimes, daily staring at the model crime scene sitting in his office. He worried there was some piece of it he did not understand or had missed.

At home, a peaceful truce was drawn; work problems were not brought into the bedroom to be discussed. The private couple lived in a world of calm and quiet, reading, listening to music, cooking simple foods, and loving each other. Yet, Sara knew her Gil was stressed by overwork, by the constant worry for his team after Greg's beating, and by the secrecy of their relationship.

Late one afternoon, after sleeping, walking Hank, and sitting in the quietness of their home, Grissom handed her a letter. Before she unfolded it, he said, "I'm thinking about applying for a leave of absence—taking a sabbatical—for this." She unfolded the letter and saw a college seal at the top of the page. "It's only for a month—I've always wanted to teach—not do this work all my life—find a way for us…" His voice hesitated; she saw the pleading in his eyes for her to understand. "It's not us—it's work…"

She never read the letter, but placed her hand on his face. "Its okay, Gil. I understand—you do what you need to do. I'll stay here," she smiled. "Hank needs me."

He sighed and sunk back against the pillows. "I need a break—to see if I can do something else—for us." He closed his eyes, his fingers pinching his nose.

Sara closed the space between them, placing her head against his shoulder. "I'm not ready to become lab gossip," she said, quietly, almost a whisper.

Their hands intertwined across his chest. "I know, honey."

A few days later, Charlotte Danville was found hanging in a church.

Sara fingered the rosary Grissom had brought out to compare with the marks on Charlotte's neck. Afterwards, she had slipped it in her pocket, finding it when she got home.

"Why did you have this is your desk?" She asked.

Grissom looked up from his desk. He had taken his request for a leave to Ecklie who had given him an odd look before signing off on it. The college had sent a bundle of forms, a textbook—temporary employment and tax documents, policies and procedures for teaching a seminar, a course syllabus, instructions for online students.

He shrugged. "I had it when I returned from her funeral and just dropped it in the drawer." He watched as her fingers moved along the string of beads. Smiling, he said, "You can have that—she would have liked you."

Sara looked at him. He had called her one morning saying he needed to be away, something had come up. But this was before they were living together—during the time they were making tentative steps, unsure of what was supposed to happen next with them. A few hours later, he called again. His mother was dead, quickly, surrounded by her friends she had died before he had arrived, and he would stay until she was buried. He wanted her to know but never said the words. All she could think to say was "I'm sorry."

"I'm not religious."

He chuckled. "That's okay—she would understand."

Within seconds, his phone rattled against the desk top. He rubbed his eyes before answering it, hoping the ache in his head was eye strain.

He got up while listening to phone, pulled a shirt from his closet and began to dress. "Missing kids," he told Sara. She started to get up. "Stay. Take care of Hank; get some sleep before coming in." He leaned over and kissed her. "Love you—see you later."

When she saw him from a distance, she knew he had a migraine—the way he held his head, his eyes, the twitch in his hand—which added to his exhaustion, to his abhorrence to pedophiles, and to his fears for the missing boys. She could do nothing in the lab but watch as he finally slipped away to find a quiet, dark place to rest.

At home, she prepared a simple meal, a salad and added cheese and eggs, cut fruit and bread, and brought it to Grissom's bed. He lay with eyes covered, a hand on Hank's head.

"Any better," she asked as she sat beside him.

"Much improved," he said removing the folded cloth from his face.

She passed a treat to Hank. "Can you eat?" She placed a piece of fruit in his mouth when he opened it causing her to laugh. "I see my two boys want to be fed."

"Put the four-legged one in his bed and join me in this one," he said, sinking back on the bed after raising his head, realizing the pain had not completely gone away.

Sara led Hank to the kitchen and pointed to his bed. The training was working—for people and dog—as Hank curled in his bed and Sara patted his head saying a few words before she returned to the bedroom. Grissom had moved the bowl of fruit to his chest and was eating while lying flat.

"Let me help," Sara said as she crawled in bed with him. Slowly, she fed him the fruit, most of the salad, a chunk of bread.

"Food helps."

She giggled. "Especially when you are fed like a Roman god!"

Sleep came at last—medication, the dark bedroom, and having Sara near him lulled Grissom into sleep. He woke hours later to hear Sara talking on the phone; his headache was gone leaving him with fatigue that often followed.

"Work?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'll take it. You rest."

He reached for her. "I'll go—if you can stay with me for a little longer."

She grinned. "The dead can wait—old lady found at home." She leaned over and began to massage his temples. "How's your head?"

"Better—much better," he didn't lie yet the view of her leaning over him, the touch of her breasts against his chest made him realize what he really wanted involved getting her back in bed which would mean she would be late to her call.

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and reviews! Enjoy!_


	3. Chapter 3

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 3**

Her fingertips worked in circles across his head lessening the residual pain, easing his exhaustion. "Can you stay a little longer," he asked.

"I need to dress—my boss will not like it if I'm too late," she teased.

He smiled for the first time in hours. "Maybe—if you stay, your boss will help you out." His hand reached around her waist; the other he placed on her face. "Crawl in," he lifted an eyebrow, "The dead can wait."

His headache had obviously diminished, Sara thought as she squirmed back into bed. He was already pushing down his sleeping pants.

"What happened to that headache?" She asked.

He chuckled. "This will help drive away the pain."

Sara lifted her arms so he could push her top over her head and before she could toss it aside, his hands were around her waist and sliding her pants off. Shivering, she giggled when he pulled her downward in such a way that his lips landed in the valley between her breasts. She could feel him pressed against her thigh, already firm and heavy with desire. She moved legs over his hips and framed his face with her hands, kissing him with an open-mouth urgency at the same time she pushed against his groin.

Grissom slid one hand down her back and traced the swell of her butt continuing until he was between her legs. He groaned as she twisted against his hand and tried to move away from his lips. Instead, he tugged her upward, positioning her so she straddled his thighs. He stroked her, watching her face, noticing the flush spreading across her chest as her arousal intensified.

Her body reacted to his touch by tightening, aching with desire. His erection probed the damp, throbbing entrance to her body, yet he kept his fingers working bringing her to the cusp of orgasm slowing movements before grabbing her around her hips and driving himself into her. His hips rocked upward and holding her firmly, he rolled in one smooth turn without breaking contact. Once on top, the natural instincts of both succeeded in quickly bringing each to a phase of intense sensation—his arm wrapped around Sara's back bringing his fingers to the area where her breast swelled from her chest. He gently caressed this secret erogenous spot at the same time he kissed, licked and sucked another area behind her ear. He knew her contractions intensified, her back arched, her fingernails dug into the skin of his back, and a sound—quiet, a barely audible gasping for breath formed in his ear. His pace quicken as his own contractions came in rapid waves as he reached orgasm seconds after Sara, breathless, sweaty, and tasting each other in the rush of passion.

When one was finally able to speak—and it took several minutes before breathing returned to normal—Grissom suggested they call in a sick day. "Fifteen minutes apart—say you have an upset stomach; I need to rest—from my migraine." His hand played on Sara's butt. "I love you butt," he whispered. "It fits perfectly."

Sara giggled, sounding more like a teenager than she should have with its light uplifting ripple. "How's your head?"

They arrived at Penny Garden's house within minutes of each other and looking at the almost decapitated old woman, they found it easy to go into work-mode. Sara reminded Grissom of Greg's court date before as he left and Catherine arrived to help. The case evolved, progressed, reversed yet nothing was resolved.

The neighbors and the nephew looked guilty; liquid nicotine was found. Drugs were found—Penny had cancer on top of cancer. Every hour that passed seemed to complicate every thing they had discovered.

Every hour that passed increased Sara's worry—Greg was in his court hearing; Grissom had not slowed since shift started.

Sara sat in the break room with Greg as he related his frustrations of the wearisome and maddening day in court. Nick and Warrick joined in commiserating the irrational legal process of court. And they all realized it wasn't over. It was Catherine who broke up their conversation with the announcement that Penny's nephew had delivered an intricate scale model of the crime scene. Everyone was stunned—astonished that another one had arrived, delivered to the lab by a suspect, and seemingly a perfect replica of Penny Garden's death scene.

Sara knew Grissom would work until exhaustion drove him to bed. Only a few weeks had passed since Izzy Delancy had been murdered and the case had grown cold. He would spend hours going over every aspect of the model until he found something.

Finally, Sara left the lab, going by to pick up Hank before going home. More hours would pass before Grissom joined her, trying to be quiet as he showered and crawled in bed.

"Anything?" She asked.

He sighed. "It's a puzzle—we've got the tape from the neighbor; maybe something will come from that." He burrowed under covers and pulled her close. "God, Sara, what would I do if you weren't here?"

She wrapped arms around him without saying a word. Her fingers wove through his hair as she gently kissed him. This was almost more intimate than sex, she thought, when he came to her physically and psychologically depleted with a need to be near her, snuggling into her arms, sleeping on one pillow. She knew he would wake her in a few hours ready for the real intimacy in their relationship. She kissed him again, frowning with a concern she would soon have to share.

Grissom was asleep almost immediately; his soft breaths warming Sara's neck, but Sara was awake—never a sound sleeper, never requiring much sleep, and now a new worry kept her from needed sleep. She closed her eyes and tried her relaxing techniques, starting with her toes. After her third or fourth try, she finally dozed.

For two people who had spent a life time sleeping alone, the two slept together as one rarely separating in sleep and almost always responsive to the other one. When Sara became aware of lips against her neck and very gentle pressure of fingers stroking her nipple, she smiled. Grissom was awake and, as with most males, he was ready for sex. She edged closer to him, a grin playing across her face.

"Ahhh—you're awake," he whispered.

She made an agreeable sound as a response and opened her eyes to find two blue ones in very close proximity. "Bathroom first," she said as she attempted to wiggle over and around his body.

"Me too." He placed feet on the floor, planted a hand on her backside and walked to the bathroom with her.

Sara knew he had his own agenda—he hit the switch so the lights would gradually brighten and before she was finished, he had adjusted the shower and turned on the towel heater—all while walking around nude with this huge erection rising against his belly. She snickered and he looked at her with an expression of boyish satisfaction—pleased with his world.

This was their private world, she thought. No worries, no interruptions, nothing but the two of them as he held the shower door open and she stepped inside. They went into each other's arms as warm water fell from a rain shower faucet.

"One day, I'm going to take you to the rainforest."

Sara nodded. His words caused her to catch her breath, so softly he never noticed. He lifted her leg and slipped his erection snuggly between her legs, placing his foot on the bench in the shower. His hand played along her spine; the other cupped her breast as he kissed her. She responded because she loved him with all of her heart. He loved her and while she knew he rarely said the words—neither of them did—she would do whatever he wanted. She knew he would do anything she asked.

They had learned so much about the physical act of love with each other. He knew the place behind her ear that made her shiver, the place beneath her breast that made her murmur, and the small button of nerves inside her that made her gasp. She knew he loved this foreplay—caressing her body with butterfly touches as she kissed him, her hands fondling his body with soft strokes, her lips meeting his as he greedily probed and searched her mouth.

She felt his butt clench under her hands in the second before he entered her and she made a fast intake of breath. They waited, heads touching, holding each other in a moment before impending sensations brought gratification. Sara made a slight motion of her head and he began to move. Water rained over them as they crashed together on a collision course to orgasm; Sara lost her ability to breathe normally as every nerve in her body seemed to concentrate in her pelvis before sending passionate waves from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. Without thought, she went limp against him.

Only when Grissom moved did she realize her entire weight rested against him and she wanted to stay exactly has he held her, but he eased them both to the bench.

"Best idea ever," he said as he rearranged bodies so he was sitting with feet propped at one end, shoulders resting at the other, and Sara was more or less on top of him. He had managed to change the shower spray to one of a gentle sprinkle of rain.

She was almost asleep when he began to talk, his voice soft with affection and love that Sara knew no one else ever heard. "I've tried to think of a way for you to go with me, Sara, but unless we are ready to go public, I don't know how to do it. Four weeks is such a long time—I'll miss you every day."

Her hand played across his wet chest. "I'll be fine, Gil. You need time away—to be a professor." She smiled and kissed his chest. "I'll miss this most of all." She felt the rumble in his chest.

"What am I going to do without my wake up lover?"

As an answer, she pressed her lips to his chest and sucked, leaving a bright red mark above his nipple. She rose up, looked at him with a smile tugging at her mouth, and said, "I'm going to put my mark all over you so any other woman will know you're taken." She kissed him again—this time on his lips in a satisfied, "last word on this" manner—before she stood, handed him the soap and sponge, saying "Will you do my back?"

_A/N: Thanks for reading--if you like it let us know! Thanks!_


	4. Chapter 4

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 4**

Sara spent a shift sitting in the courthouse, waiting. She talked to Nick and Greg, made lists, and checked her calendar. Grissom's four week sabbatical was marked with a long black line. She counted days forward and backward, recounted again, talked to Greg for the second time, wanted to call Grissom, but made two calls instead. Finally, she was dismissed—another date would be set. She found Grissom in his office long after his shift had ended—reading Thoreau which he quoted for her before she headed home.

He needed a few weeks away from this place if he was quoting lines from Walden's Pond, she thought. She made a fast stop for a few items, picked up Hank, and pulled into the garage just behind Grissom. She thought he had seemed to be waiting for her—something he would never admit.

Exhaustion was etched into his face and lightened only slightly as she let go of the dog's leash and Grissom knelt to pat the dog.

"I don't think Thoreau had a dog," she said as she leaned over and kissed him.

Grissom stood and opened the door to their condo. "I need to be alone on a pumpkin to get some of that backlog of work finished."

"Shower—I'll walk Hank and fix some food; you can get some sleep." She handed a bag of groceries to him and flashed a quick smile.

He stood in the kitchen watching as she gave Hank a treat, put several things in the refrigerator, filled the tea kettle with water, and placed fruit in a bowl with an easy, flowing movement, quietly singing an old song.

"Sara," he whispered, almost silently saying her name.

She turned, and seeing his face, pale with fatigue, she smiled. He needed nothing else added to the concerns he already carried. She said, "Go shower. I'll make an omelet." He left her in the kitchen as Hank followed him. She reached into her bag and threw two small boxes into a drawer.

By the time she plated the eggs and cut up fruit, Grissom returned, damp and clean, toweling his hair dry. "I'm so tired I'm not sure I can eat," he said.

Sara forked a bite of the omelet and held it out to him, "I'll feed you."

He smiled as he folded his hand around hers. "I missed you today."

"You should have been on my bench." She handed him the fork.

For the first time in days, Grissom was asleep within minutes. Sara walked Hank and cleaned the kitchen before she brought out the boxes she had thrown in the drawer. She read the instructions, twice, after breaking the seal on one. This was the easy part—following directions. She leaned against the cool surface of the refrigerator—this was one predicament she had never faced—and while one part of her brain said "no" the other part said "maybe". She hesitated before she peeled back the wrapper. Whatever the result, she had already decided not to tell Grissom—not yet, not before his sabbatical, not adding another level to his exhaustion.

She closed the door to the bathroom and turned on the shower. It took less than five minutes for the little window to begin to change and she sat holding the slim tube for another five. Negative. Negative—or not positive, but was it a true negative. She kept waiting for some kind of sign—relief or assurance or peace. She sighed; now she knew why the box contained two of these things. She wrapped it in paper and shoved it to the bottom of the trash basket.

Just as sure as she had been when she counted days on her calendar, she knew when the 'window of possibility' had occurred. With the near murderous beating of her friend, when they were so involved in trying to catch the roving swarm as Grissom had called the gang of young thugs, she had been in the fourth week of her cycle, just ended her period, and she had simply forgotten—a shift that had turned into a triple, almost sick from the image of Greg's battered and bruised face, and she had not remembered until much later and by then—well, she figured out they had probably had unprotected sex at least twice. She had searched the internet for an answer to her dilemma and found nothing that really helped—gave her the answer she needed—so today she had purchased the home pregnancy test after calling her doctor's office for advice. Probably she wasn't and home pregnancy tests were unpredictable, depending on several factors, the nurse explained. She made an appointment—for the day after Grissom was to leave—but now it appeared she might have her answer. Except the package directions said to test again in three days.

The second package was contraceptive film. The nurse assured her it would prevent pregnancy if she had ovulated and did no harm if she was pregnant. She read the instructions—easier to understand than the ones for the test, she thought. She shoved the box behind her deodorant and stepped into the shower. She should feel relief but somehow the negative result did not ease her anxiety. All those thousands of messages from people who got negative results to learn later they were pregnant kept playing through her brain.

She leaned against the tile and let water cascade down her back. The last thing she—they—needed now was a baby. Grissom seemed to be so happy with their current situation she could not imagine how he would react to an unexpected and unplanned event like this. And it was her fault; she bit her lip and blinked back tears. She would never end a pregnancy—and she was certain he would never suggest termination—not with his Catholic background. She attempted a smile. He and his comment about not being a Catholic—yeah, she thought, like one could change that anymore than one could change eye color.

The call to her mother while she waited at the courthouse was another cause for concern. While their relationship had never been the typical mother-daughter one, Grissom had encouraged Sara to reach out and reestablish contact. It had worked so well that Laura Sidle had extended an invitation to Sara—one Sara kept putting off for some underlying reason she could not name. She knew it went back to the haunting time in her life when her childhood went from an abusive family to no family at all and she had built solid walls around certain memories—ones she did not want to remember.

Sara filled her hand with shampoo, raked fingers through her hair and closed her eyes as she tried to quiet her racing mind. So deep in thought, conflicting her past with the present, she did not hear the shower door open until she felt a hand on her backside. The gentle way he caressed her shoulder, the way he turned her body into his caused her to sigh and lean into him dampening his shirt and pants before he reached to turn off the water.

"What's my favorite girl doing hanging out in the shower for thirty minutes?"

She shrugged and shook her head, "nothing—thinking—realizing how much I'll miss you."

He wrapped a towel around her body and another around her hair. "I don't have to go."

"Yes," she sniffed and wiped her face. "You need to go—get away from all this—I'm fine, really, I am. Just—just feeling a little down, I guess."

He pulled a shirt over her head and reached for her deodorant, knocking several things around as he did so. Sara watched as he idly sat several bottles and tubes upright without so much as a glance; she returned the stick to its place, and breathed a sigh of relief at his inattentive actions.

The bed was still warm when she crawled under the covers with Grissom. He pulled her close, groaned and shifted a bit before whispering "love you, honey" and kissed her before closing his eyes. In seconds, he was asleep. Sara's mind continued spinning in circles keeping her awake until she finally dreamed in circles. Nightmares in reality causing her to fret and mumble in her sleep as she confused her childhood with another child and saw herself as child and parent, calling to Grissom—Gilbert in her dreams, only to see her dead father's face.

She woke before Grissom, got out of bed, opened the box of contraceptive film, and, following the simple instructions, inserted the folded little square where it was supposed to work. She gave herself a self-congratulation pat on her leg, returned to the bedroom, and snuggled back in bed. If things worked as they usually did, at least fifteen minutes would pass before Grissom woke enough to respond to her attentions.

It was such a lovely little form of amusement they played, she thought. If he woke first, she would pretend to sleep as he warmed her up or he would grumble and try to be a crank if she woke him up, acting surprised that she was awake and kissing his chest and sliding her fingers through his hair. This afternoon he did not disappoint as he muttered something about trying to sleep, caught her hand in his and rolled to his side before opening his eyes.

"Feeling better," he whispered.

"I do—do you?"

He chuckled. "If I can get these panties off you, I know I'll feel better." His hand slipped to her butt and in one swift motion, he had pushed her panties to her ankles. From there she slipped them off as he worked her shirt over her head. "Why do we sleep in clothes?" He asked. "We should sleep naked."

Sara giggled. "What if we had a fire? I don't want to be standing outside wrapped in a sheet. And what if someone came to the door—like Greg." Her comment made them both laugh.

Months before, when they still had separate places, they had been at her apartment, ordered pizza in the middle of the afternoon, and Grissom had gotten in the shower. When she heard the knock on her door, she had opened the door expecting a pizza delivery and found Greg with beer. Her apartment was small; it was obvious someone was in the shower and after an embarrassing, stumbling attempt to ask if she wanted to share the beer, he left. As Sara had closed the door, she saw Grissom's shoes where he had kicked them off. She had told Grissom of the unexpected visitor. At the time, he had shrugged and said "We'll see if he says anything." He had not.

This afternoon, as the sun brightened the edges of the room's blinds, Gil Grissom, a man, made love to this woman in fine, deliberate ways. His fingers moved across smooth, firm flesh as he attempted to memorize the way her arm moved around his waist. His mouth opened, pulling her inside his as he felt the sharp edge of her teeth against his lips. He held her tightly against his chest and abdomen so he could feel the swells of her breast, the tightness across her belly, and the rise of her pubic bone against his groin.

They had performed this physical act with such searching frenzy in the beginning they had privately thought the uniqueness would become common but now, familiarity kept the frenzy part at bay and the searching had become exploration. But neither ever felt it was ordinary—it was passion for the other that guided and propelled and urged every action. Today, he touched her, caressed and kissed and brought her to the verge of orgasm before slowing his motions, letting her catch her breath and doing it again. Finally, she pleaded for him to join her—an emotional passionate appeal—and he did. Slowly entering her, possessing her in the beginning before instinct took over and their rhythmic motions increased with a swiftness that eventually overpowered determination or fortitude or endurance, and they both collapsed. Wave after wave of powerful muscle contractions rolled through the two bodies until no energy was left for anything other than those involuntary, instinctive actions of beating hearts and breathing lungs. Thoughts disappeared, the ability to stand was momentarily lost, concerns and worries were no longer present in the brain.

"I love you, Gil."

Sweat dripped on her shoulder from his forehead. "God, Sara—how can I leave you for four weeks?"

She chuckled. "Just don't go looking for this anywhere else."

He breathed against her neck. "Mind blowing, face melting sex only happens here," he kissed her just below her ear. "Only with you."

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Now write a few words in a review! Thank you to all of you who are so nice to do so!_


	5. Chapter 5

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 5**

There were four murders committed in the next twenty four hours in Las Vegas and Warrick, Greg, and Sara sat in stunned silence as Catherine related the ending. Greg was practically dripping saliva from his chin as they listened to the story of an old-time hoodlum-turned gangster showing up for revenge thinking he was going to die. Catherine practically danced around the table as she told the story of the bedside confessions of Mickey Dunn. After the long shift, everyone left the lab in a daze knowing they would be back in a few hours with swing and day shifts pulling extra hours so they could sleep.

At home, Grissom stared at his suitcase as Hank watched from the floor and Sara watched from the bed. He had started the process a week ago and had not made much progress.

"It's cold—pack extra socks."

The clothes were definitely not going to fit in the space he had left. Sara rolled off the bed, disappeared for a few minutes and returned with another bag.

"Pack another one," she said, unzipping the soft duffle.

Grissom looked from one bag to the other, lifted a stack of folded clothes and dropped them into the duffle, along with shoes, a jacket, and a notebook. He grinned. "Good idea," he said, "now I can take a few more books." He stepped to the office and searched bookcases, selecting several thick, hard-back books.

Sara's quiet laughter grew louder as he piled the books into the suitcase. "Gil! Check your books, not your clothes! You'll need your coat—it's cold in Massachusetts." She plucked his coat and shoes from the duffle. "Wear these—they are the heaviest."

Stepping back, he became the watcher as she rearranged and repacked, a few books in the duffle, leaving an old favorite in his carry-on, and mixing clothes and books in each bag with space remaining for last minutes items. She pushed her hair behind her ear as she surveyed what else he had to pack and, quite suddenly, he knew how much he was going to miss her.

"Sara."

She turned to him, saying "Yes," expecting another item to add to his bag. Instead, he presented an outreached hand. He seemed to hesitate before he stepped closer and she reached out to him. Neither said anything as arms folded around each other and they stood in a comfortable silence until a low-pitched sound from near their knees caused both to look down.

Hank sat at their feet, looking up, head turned to one side with questioning eyes.

"I'll walk him—you go to sleep," Sara said. She looked back at his packing process. "I'll help you finish up; we have several days before you leave."

He nodded. "You won't be gone long?"

Sara took a little longer to get ready for the walk than necessary, making sure Grissom got in bed without a book or case file before she left. When she returned, he was sound asleep on his back, in the middle of the bed, until she slipped under the covers. He made a grumpy sound, rolling to his side, mumbling a few words, before wrapping an arm around her. She kissed him lightly and watched him as he slept. There was no way he knew how much she would miss his physical presence; in the quiet, dark room, she almost cried as she thought about the four long weeks of loneliness she faced.

Their next shift ran quietly, uncharacteristically routine, until it turned into one of the most bizarre, haunting and remembered experiences of their lives because of two unrelated cases. At dawn, Grissom and Catherine went to a scene where a man was stuck in concrete several feet away from the body of a woman. Sara, Nick and Greg had gone to a hit and run—some wayward tourist stepped in the path of a fast moving vehicle, receiving broken legs, multiple contusions and lucky to be a guest of Desert Palms Hospital instead of the local morgue.

Before they had finished documenting their scene, Grissom called for Greg, and sent Nick with Warrick. By the time Sara left the hospital, the sun was warming the city and she was thinking of a long sleep, waking up beside Grissom with some playful sex worked in before their next shift. The second home pregnancy test had returned another negative result which had definitely lifted her mood—she still had the doctor's appointment but wasn't nearly as worried as she had been a week ago. Maybe, she thought, she should buy some special food for a private good-bye celebration before Grissom left for his sabbatical. She had reminded him the night before that he had yet to make the announcement to the rest of the team.

Back at the lab she heard the story of the first early morning case of the man in concrete followed by an old lady and a gas leak and another body found at a chicken plant. Nick managed to tease her about staying away from that scene—too much killing going on.

Sara was relieved to miss that one and managed to get all her evidence in before her cell phone rang with a call from Grissom.

"We have another one," he said.

She immediately knew he meant a miniature crime scene. "What?"

"The dead man at the chicken plant. Greg and I are heading in—this has gotten me backed into a corner."

Sara could hear the fatigue in his voice and knew it would be hours before anyone left the lab. The model was incredible in its detail and then Grissom found the small photo of the dead doll, something that had no place in a chicken processing miniature.

"It's three different views of the same dead doll."

They looked at photographs, the models, went through what few details they had until Sara saw the name of the chicken processing plant—Mannleigh Chickens. She left Grissom standing in the layout room. Hours passed as news and information and chitchat swirled in and out of the lab. Sara caught bits and pieces of the man in concrete became the man with no name, Warrick and Nick's case of a dead woman found in an oven became linked with the concrete guy. She worked through videos until she found the one she remembered.

Ike Mannleigh was brought in and questioned; Grissom replayed the video of the miniature delivery and Hodges provided the next clue followed by Greg finding a name. It was hours later when a raid on Ernie Dell's house found evidence of model making and the man was questioned. But he was released—maybe they were picking on an old man, Brass said.

The case weighed heavily on Grissom—a man living an unnoticed life would go to prison for the rest of his life—the exhaustion seeped across his face and into his bones. Then Sara walked in with the source of the cell phones, a credit card belonging to Ernie Dell.

Just after midnight, Grissom received an email, a real time video of Ernie Dell admitting to the murders of Izzy Delancy, Penny Garden, and Raymundo Suarez. As Grissom watched, Dell put a gun to his chin and shot himself. More hours passed, a double became a triple as everyone searched the Dell house for evidence.

Grissom related all this to Sara as they lay in bed, too exhausted to sleep, too tired to eat or walk Hank. Sara massaged his temples trying to ease the tension that remained in his eyes.

"It's over—but there's no explanation," he said.

Sara placed a finger against his lips. "Shhhh, close your eyes. We have one day before you leave—just for us."

At some point, in a foggy dream state, Sara heard him changing his flight but when she woke, he was sleeping beside her and she wasn't sure if she had dreamed or if he had actually been on the phone. She stretched, felt the warmth of Hank sleeping at her feet, decided to bribe him with a treat and moved the dog into the kitchen. A glance at the clock and she realized they had been asleep nearly eight hours—another eight hours and Grissom would be gone. She remembered her dream; maybe he did change his flight. She remembered her secondary birth control method before she crawled back in bed. There was one sure method of releasing stress, she thought, as she curled against Grissom's back and began to kiss his neck, just below his left ear.

Instead of his usual, hard to wake up act, he turned instantly. "I lost my bed buddy," he said.

Sara felt the heat from his groin through the fabric of her pants. She scooted so her lips met his chest as she pushed his shirt upward.

"Just relax, baby. I'm taking care of you today," she kept kissing his chest, tasting his slightly salted skin as she slipped lower. He sucked in his breath when she arrived at his navel and began to use her tongue more than her lips as she dampened his skin before blowing quick, warm puffs of air against his skin. She managed to remove his pants, those long fingers playing along his thigh, his calf before gently massaging his feet.

With her hand, she circled his erection, moved downward and gently threaded her fingers around its based, letting her fingertips arouse and excite. His hips moved, his fingers clenched in her hair.

"I can't take this," he whispered in a voice husky with desire.

Sara chuckled. "Yes you can—just relax." Her mouth went lower, but instead of what was expected, she kissed his erection with short gently touches of her lips. His knee flexed and she pushed it back to the bed. Her thumb circled and caressed him. He groaned and tried to pull her up.

"Sara," her name came out as a soft moan.

She felt a spasm and pressed her palm against his groin. "Not yet," she whispered. "Relax, babe." She knew he couldn't, not in his current state of arousal. She kept her hand firmly around his erection for a few moments, took it between her lips and carefully applied the gentlest touch to this highly sensitive part of the body.

"Enough," he gasped, this time tugging her so she was came to him, a broad smile across her face. "I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes" he whispered as she snuggled against his shoulder, his arm around her, and in a swift movement, he was on top.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand played with her breast through her shirt before pulling it off; he pushed her pants to her ankles and in a practiced motion, she kicked them across the room. When she lifted her leg, he placed his hand between her legs.

"I'm not the only one ready."

They kissed in a deep, prolonged, passionate caress that did not stop with mouths, but moved along nerves to regions of the brain that released all thoughts of tension and anxiety; it caused instinct muscle contractions in areas of their body that flowed in a rhythm as old as humankind. Blood pumped and flowed and filled intimate places stimulating sexual desire.

Sara was the first to recognize the coming sensations with a warm flushing, tingling awareness filled her brain seconds before she lost conscious thought. With Grissom, his thoughts were similar to those of all men, he was the first to experience the uniqueness of these feelings with a woman. Rapid contractions, pulsing, pumping and plunging as fast as possible as he panted, groaning when release came—neither completely aware of the other's actions until seconds after he collapsed. Their kisses came to each other unaware of where they were placed, almost unaware of the whispered words of love shared.

Sara had not dreamed the flight change. Grissom had done it to give them extra hours—another day and another shift before he would take a red-eye to Boston to arrive the morning his class would begin at the Walden Pond Research Center.

They stayed in bed long afterwards; he talked of teaching. Sara worried silently about her scheduled doctor's appointment—some sense of dread that she could not cast aside—but she hid it well, not wanting to add to Grissom's stress as he prepared to leave.

_A/N: Moving along, and Grissom is ready to leave for four weeks--and Sara has a physician's appointment. Not what some of you expect, but a very stressful situation for Sara--another layer. If you are a puriest, we have taken certain liberties with the time line in some episodes. Read, enjoy--review! And another chapter soon._


	6. Chapter 6

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 6**

Changing his flight meant Grissom left mid-shift, saying a final hesitant goodbye from the locker room doorway. Sara remained in the same place long after he left, resting her head against the coolness of her locker. She was tired; suddenly, she thought she could sleep for days, just close out the noise so she would be enclosed in a quiet cocoon of restful peace.

Except someone was saying her name, "Sara." Nick was standing in the door Grissom had vacated only minutes before. "You okay? Dead body—you ready?" He held up a work slip. She nodded.

Hours later, as she drove home, her phone signaled a text message—only one person would send her a text and she smiled without even looking. She would hear from him again in twenty-four hours; they had agreed he did not need to hear about work, the lab, what was going on in Las Vegas while he was away. She changed clothes, ran to get Hank, and walking back, she called Grissom and left a message…

Sara hated doctor's offices—especially when she was the one with the appointment. She actually liked the doctor, an older woman who never seemed to be in a hurry, who always sat down to talk. Today, she examined Sara thoroughly, asking questions as she proceeded. At one point, she said "This will hurt," and it did. After the longest physical—with much swabbing and probing of her pelvic region, the doctor left the examining room while Sara dressed giving her directions to the small office at the end of the hall.

"You are not pregnant, but I think you already knew that," was how the doctor started the conversation. She flipped through several pages of Sara's medical history. "We don't have much long-term history for you—your mother is healthy?"

Sara nodded.

"Have you ever talked to her about her medical history—before you were born?"

"No—no, we—we don't talk much about anything. We've not been close for years."

"You're still a vegetarian?"

Another nod.

"Exercising? You've actually lost some weight since…" the doctor turned to the first page, "six months ago when you changed to the patch." A knock on the door and a young nurse passed a slip of paper to the doctor who glanced at it and passed it to Sara. "You're anemic—which is not unusual for women your age—and vegetarian and loss of weight which can cause you to have missed periods. We can correct this with supplements and in a few weeks you will feel much better."

The doctor turned back to another page, taking time to make some notes before continuing to talk. "I took some cells from your cervix that appear to be abnormal—like fish scales—most likely its nothing—but I want you to ask your mother if she was ever treated for a potential miscarriage before you were born." The physician looked up at Sara and seeing the puzzled look on her face, she asked, "Have you ever heard of diethyestibestrol--DES?"

Sara shook her head which caused the doctor to expand her explanation of DES, more specifically DES daughters. She wrote the word on a pad and handed it to Sara. "It was used for thirty years to prevent miscarriage, but in the early 1970s it was discontinued because of a rare form of cancer showing up in women—and several other health risks in their daughters. I'm almost positive you do not have CCA, the rare cancer—it's not visible to the eye, but I took smears to check. I've only seen a few women your age with this history, but I'm one—a daughter—so anytime I see odd looking cells I think of DES. So, ask your mother—she would have been among the last to be treated with it."

The physician wrote more notes. "I want you to have blood work done—anemia can come from an iron deficiency or a vitamin deficiency. I want to check your thyroid levels while we're doing all this. There are a lot of possible reasons for your fatigue, irregular periods—your concern that something isn't quite right." She smiled as she handed several slips of paper to Sara. "Make an appointment to return in four days—I'll have the lab work and your results back," the woman looked up appearing to realize Sara had said nothing. "I'm sorry—I'm talking too much. Ask me questions," she said.

Sara was dazed. Coming in because she thought she had 'thrown off' her cycle, she had not expected to hear questions about her mother's pregnancy, or abnormal cells or anemia or this DES stuff.

The doctor reached out and touched Sara's hand. "You're anemic—very treatable. All this other is just precautionary—cover my butt. You're still in a stable relationship?" She asked.

Again, Sara nodded. "He's out of town for a month." She looked at the prescriptions and lab slips in her hand. "What happens to the daughters?"

"You'll read everything there is on the internet and we don't know anything yet. Look at the CDC website—talk to your mother and we'll talk again in four days. Chances are it's nothing—or nothing we can't fix with a simple procedure."

After Sara left, her doctor sat at her desk for some time pushing the afternoon's appointments later in the day; she had recognized the appearance of the abnormal cells as well as a structural change in the cervix and she would bet her medical license that Sara Sidle was a DES daughter. She went back to Sara's file and checked birth year—she was born as the window was closing on DES which made it even more distressing. She closed the chart; she would hope for very minor effects of a drug that brought a baby into the world only to wreck havoc on reproduction abilities decades later.

As soon as she got home, Sara searched for information, kept reading until her eyes blurred and Hank whined for attention. When her sleepy head almost hit the desk, she moved from the office to the bed and slept a few hours before work. She missed two calls from Grissom, but sent him an email—a short, cheerful message with no mention of her physician's visit.

The next two nights and days were a blur of dead girls as the team discovered a serial killer had murdered young women over three decades and managed to hide in plain sight. Sara met Michael Keppler, a new CSI from day shift who would work with the team until Grissom returned. By the time she headed home, she realized she had not had time to think about herself—she had managed to sit in her car and talk to Grissom for thirty minutes early in the morning. He was so excited about his class, meeting students, and settling into his temporary housing that she did not have to talk much, just make enthusiastic sounds, say she was fine, and she and Hank missed him.

She went by the pathology lab and had enough blood drawn from her arm to supply all the vampires of Transylvania a full glass. She ate an apple as she walked Hank to the park, ended up throwing most of the apple in the trash, and was so exhausted by the time they returned that she fell asleep on the sofa. A wet nose woke her up hours later as Hank wiggled his head under her hand and she realized her phone was ringing.

Catherine—asking for her to arrive early to start processing a scene; Sara sent Grissom a brief email, saying nothing about her own worries. He had been gone almost a week, they spoke daily, sent emails, and she let him talk about his enjoyment of teaching. It had been months since she had heard his voice resonant with excitement about work. She smiled as she pulled into the parking garage as she thought of Grissom the professor. Her own concerns were pushed back as she was handed a plain box addressed to her with Grissom's return address in the corner. Rather bold of him, she thought, as she opened the box, removed the paper, and found the cocoon inside. She almost laughed out loud when she realized there was no message, no note or explanation. She had told him she needed a cocoon to get some sleep.

There were times during the next twenty four hours that Sara felt she had fallen down the hole in Alice in Wonderland—evidence was found, hidden, reprocessed. They were lied to and tricked as Catherine followed Keppler's suggestion of something he called "reverse forensics" and none of it worked. By the time Sara reached home, she had time to shower, dress and get to her physician's office an hour past her appointment time.

"Cervical intraepithelial neoplasia" was a long term for abnormal cells which the physician proceeded to "freeze" as treatment. The physician did several other procedures before telling her to dress so they could talk.

"You've read everything about DES, I'm sure. Did you talk with your mother?"

"Scary stuff," Sara said. "I—my mother doesn't remember," she lied; she had not talked to her mother in weeks. "There's no indication of cancer?"

The doctor shook her head. "No, but you need to return in six months just to make me happy. Your cervix looks like this," she drew a diagram. "It doesn't interfere with your life and will probably disappear in a few years. However," she began to draw another simple diagram that Sara recognized. "This is how a normal uterus looks, and," she drew another T-shape, "this is how yours looks—a classic sign of DES exposure." She paused, waiting for Sara to ask a question, before continuing. "With this, the biggest problem is fertility issues and carrying a pregnancy to full-term. Not impossible, just problems that have to be addressed."

When the doctor stopped talking, Sara realized she was supposed to say something.

"I—I don't think fertility or pregnancy is a problem now."

The physician smiled. "This doesn't mean you can't get pregnant, so keep using your contraceptive method—the patch is as good as anything else right now. When you decide to have a baby, we can talk about your options." She shuffled the stack of papers that now filled the medical file. "You are a healthy young woman with a couple of treatable problems—anemia which is coming from lack of iron and B-12, so take the supplements. The abnormal cells are taken care of for now. We'll check again in six months. Can you take a few days off to rest?" And seeing Sara shake her head, said "Don't do a lot of physical lifting for a couple of days."

Back in her car, Sara put her head against the steering wheel—an unusual feeling of lightheadedness came over her. She wasn't pregnant, and wasn't likely to get that way if the doctor was correct about fertility, and she wasn't going to die of cancer, not soon anyway. Or perhaps the doctor was wrong and she wasn't really a "DES daughter"—she could live without the added complications of that. She did not realize how long she had been there until a tap on her window brought her back to real time. Her doctor and a nurse were standing beside her car, both with worried expressions on their faces.

Their questions and concerns were apparent as they asked a dozen questions before deciding she was overworked and needed sleep. The nurse offered to follow her home, but Sara insisted she was fine, and she was; she needed to sleep and she missed him--every hour of the day, she missed seeing, hearing and being in Grissom's presence. She glanced at the time and pressed speed dial. She knew he would not answer his phone at this time of day but she wanted to hear his voice. She left a short message, picked up Hank and drove home.

_A/N: Now you know what adds to Sara's stress level--if you've read this much, review!! Grissom returns soon!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Grissom returns--get those reviews in!! We want to hear from all of you! _

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 7**

Another week went by, Sara worked with Warrick on one case, Greg on another, Nick for another and they made sure she ate when they did. She avoided conflict with Catherine even after the reverse forensics debacle, and at some point, she realized the fatigue was fading, she was sleeping better and felt rested when she woke. She ticked days off her calendar, talked to Grissom once a day, sent him an email after her shift, and learned there was another club scene in Vegas unfamiliar to her.

The last week of Grissom's sabbatical, Sara went into work overload and actually took a day off. She cleaned the house, had her hair trimmed, bought some new things, bathed and groomed Hank, and started counting hours until Grissom's plane arrived. Then she pulled dumpster duty, and while she was working, Grissom managed to grab a seat on an earlier flight and arrived in the lab, unannounced.

All her plans for a private homecoming were dashed when she met him in the hallway and he kept following her stinky body as she backed away, saying things he should not be saying—not in public where someone might hear him—and the grin on his face probably mirrored her own and she finally got into the locker room and showered. Catherine grabbed her for a search of a hooker's apartment which added a few more hours to her shift. In record time, she logged in evidence, finished paperwork, and as she was leaving, heard the news about Keppler's death. Officially, Grissom had two days before he was scheduled to return to the lab but now that everyone knew he was home, Sara doubted he would stay away.

At home, she ran around in a last minute whirlwind—Hank had to be walked and fed, she showered again and put on her new things, she pulled out food she had already prepared, and then she waited. By nine, he still wasn't there. Sara waited, looked at the clock, checked her phone, got a book and tried to read it. Then she walked around the house, checking everything a second, third time.

Well after ten, she heard the garage door lift, Hank's ears perked up at the sound of footsteps, and the door opened. He was breathless, cold and lugging two overstuffed bags, saying he was sorry to be so late. Sara put her hand on his bearded cheek, closed her eyes, and waited for him to kiss her. He started to, but instead, he leaned to the curve between her neck and shoulder and inhaled a great, deep breath of her—the clean scent of her hair and skin. His hand felt the smooth, silkiness of her hair, the fabric of her robe, and he growled, an audible exhale of breath, and she knew what that meant.

From the door, there were several obstacles before reaching the bedroom. Hank got a treat. Grissom grabbed two pieces of fruit, shed his coat, left his luggage, and almost carried her to the bedroom. He did not undress—he did remove Sara's robe and managed to take a few steps back.

"Oh, you've been shopping," he whispered. Her bra and panties were an ivory silk, snug and expensive looking.

Her face ached from the smile stretched across it as she took his head in her hands. His eyes were bluer, the wrinkles around his eyes had faded, his hair was longer, curlier, and his beard—cute, so professor looking, she thought—her thumbs moved across his chin and she grinned. His hands had clasped behind her back in a firm hold.

"Dear Sara, I've missed you every day!"

"You are home," and with those words, Sara kissed him with such passion that it sent shivers down her spine, making her heart beat like a Bodhran on St. Patrick's Day. His mouth opened to hers as one of his hands slipped to her backside and brought her body against his with a force that caused her to gasp.

Without conscious thought, they tumbled onto the bed and scrambled around the covers until they were more or less between the new sheets; Grissom said something about taking a shower and Sara muttered, clearly, "later" as she worked on the buttons of his shirt. His belt gave her a bit of a problem but by then he was on his back, waiting, laughing, kissing any part of her that came close to his mouth. He did remove his socks when that was the only article of clothing left on his body and he was underneath the covers in total darkness and finding it pleasant as well as fun to find the remembered intimate and familiar spots to kiss. The bra and panties she had spent hours shopping for were off in seconds and lost among his boxer shorts, socks, and moving feet.

While the process seem to take some time, the two lovers were working with such frenzy and emotion that exactly nine minutes passed from the time they fell into bed until Sara peaked in an orgasm she would later recall "to die for". Grissom remembered nothing but the intense sensation of being surrounded by the feel, the smell, the sound of Sara as he realized what he had missed the most during the past four weeks.

Even after a four week absence, both had to get breathing under control, and have some minutes to recover, before starting the process once again. This time, with some discussion about who was receiving pleasure from their actions, Grissom took over Sara's body. His fingers and lips traced along unseen lines, from her ear to the hollow of her throat, he kissed, he tasted, he breathed until his brain was saturated. He moved along her chest, paying attention to each breast, circling each with fingertips, with his lips, before delicately touching, sucking the erect nipple. A rush of sensation swept through Sara's body as he progressed down her abdomen and along her right thigh. Everything in her wanted to hurry this yearning passion for what she knew would come. But he knew what he was doing and where he was going as he switched to her left leg, just at her knee. He placed a hand under her knee and moved it over his shoulder, stroking the back of her thigh as his lips moved upward. When his fingers began to thread their way along the soft cleft of her feminine core, touching her in the most intimate fashion, her hands knotted into the sheets, her hips turned and twisted against him as she sought more. The intense feeling of his mouth on her small sensitive bud, the unexpected touch of his beard on the delicate flesh between her legs, and the rhythmic motions of his thumb and index finger as he stroked her set off a series of forces that she no longer controlled.

Grissom sensed her climax as her body tensed; her hips lifted, and wave after wave of contractions burst upon her like a storm. As her breathing changed, gasping for air, he was well aware of his erection pushing against her leg, pleased he had made such a fast recovery from their first union. He moved, propelling himself until he covered her body, and in the last contractions of her orgasm, he pushed inside her, the tight, warm, pulsating private place where he fit perfectly. He attempted to move slowly within her which did not last long. He rocked against her, deeper, moving faster, until a heavy groan escaped his lungs and he collapsed, sprawling across her, his arm curved possessively around her.

They lay quietly for a long time, taking in the sensations radiating from each other; the warmth of their bodies, the weight of his body as she held him in place, and the lingering tenderness of compassion. Sara's fingers raked through his hair letting the long curls wrap around her fingertips. Grissom's desire was to remain in full body contact with Sara as long as possible as if he could make up for four weeks absence.

Eventually, they moved apart, slightly, and talked—of nothing remembered as they laughed and touched, unable to keep hands away from caressing each other, placed kiss after kiss on the other; Grissom made a sound much like a teenager when Sara reacted to his beard tickling her in certain places.

"I'm going to have beard burn!" Sara giggled as she rubbed her hand along a tender area below her breast.

Grissom chuckled. "You've already got it—here," his fingers traced around her nipple, moved down her belly before stopping on her inner thigh. "And here," he bent to kiss the reddened skin. "But I think I can make it better."

His lips on her leg were enough to fan the flame of desire, but she tugged him back to face her, kissing him as she rolled on top.

"My turn," she whispered, husky with pleasure and anticipation. She kissed his neck, moved to his chest and touched him with her tongue in those erotic places known to lovers. She felt his fingers clench in her hair as she reached his groin. Once there, she stayed and played, gently and tenderly, kissing, tasting, letting her lips and tongue provide tantalizing touches on delicate flesh.

Twice he said her name, "Sara," in a raspy, husky voice, heated by his own longing.

A third time and his voice was filled with the sound of someone at the limits of his usual control, and it delighted her to know she had pushed him to this edge. She continued for a few seconds before he surprised her with a quick movement—pulling and rolling over in one swift motion. He braced with his elbows, caught her head between his palms and kissed her with urgency than brought a moan from deep inside her belly.

With a slight pressure of his knee, he separated her legs, and she felt his erection pressing, probing against the damp, warm entrance of her body. He eased himself in, filling her, causing the sudden gasp that always came—and he begin to move.

"Open your eyes," he whispered. There was enough light to show him her expression—passion, awe, and provocative excitement gleamed from her brown eyes. He was already half drunk with the knowledge of what was to come and seeing the same expression on her face caused him to quicken his pace, keeping eyes locked until Sara arched her back, her long neck stretched as her eyes closed in orgasm. He clamped his mouth over hers as a guttural sound of pleasure came from her lungs; he lost control as the intensity of passion and orgasm peaked in a rapid moment. He gave in, completely, accepting how much he loved this woman—his Sara.

Reality returned a long time later. Both had slept in a tangle of arms and legs, and it was Grissom who woke first. He remained very still, enjoying the intimate sense of contentment after sexual fulfillment. This was, he thought, as near perfect happiness as most people would ever know. When he shifted slightly, Sara also moved, her eyes flickered open.

"Hey," she smiled, brushed hair behind her ear, and kissed his shoulder.

"You're beautiful, you know."

Her grin widened. She rolled to face him. "I have food for us."

Grissom went about the kitchen humming very softly. He had showered and pulled his old plaid bathrobe out of the closet. He felt good. The combination of Sara, being home, making love to Sara, seeing Hank, the wonderful expression in Sara's eyes made him feel better than he had in weeks. He was where be belonged—with Sara.

They had showered together; but the physical exhaustion of making love at least three times in the past hours had kept the shower as just that. He chuckled; Sara complained of beard burn, and he was aching from the unaccustomed workout of certain parts of his body.

Sara had taken Hank for a walk while he heated one of her vegetarian casseroles. He offered to walk Hank, but both knew his 'walk' would be a quick bathroom break and back while Sara would provide a proper outing for the patient and uncomplaining dog.

He had placed dinnerware on the table and was rummaging around in a drawer for a bottle opener when he saw three new prescription bottles sitting on the counter top. Checking the label and the date, he realized Sara had said nothing about seeing a doctor, or even being sick, and all three, two vitamins and iron, could have been over-the-counter purchases. Something did not fit together—why prescriptions and why had she not told him.

_A/N: Okay, you got Grissom home, and some sweet stuff happening between Sara and Grissom, so WRITE the review! Takes 5 seconds! We want to hear from you (yes, you who read but seldom/never review!) Just do it!_


	8. Chapter 8

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 7**

Sara returned bouncing through the door with Hank and Grissom had to laugh as both headed for water then came to him. If food had not been in the oven, he would have pushed her to the counter and had sex in record time—or that's what he wanted to do.

Instead, after kissing her, holding her in his arms as he opened the oven, he said "Our food is ready and we need to eat—why am I starving?" There was something special about eating Sara's food, he thought. "What's in this one?"

She smiled. This was his favorite question about food she prepared so as they ate she listed each ingredient as if something in the food might stop him from eating. It never did and he never refused any of the vegetarian dishes—and occasionally admitted that he really liked one.

"We've had this before—you said you liked it." Her words teased; she knew he would eat what she prepared.

"I do." He grinned.

They ate in comfortable silence until he finished his food, then broke the remaining bread in half and passed a portion to Sara. He nodded his head toward the small bottles. "What's with the new prescriptions?"

Sara looked up from her plate, startled by his question, but recovering quickly. "It's vitamins—and iron. I—I'm anemic."

He pushed his chair back and moved it so that knees touched her thigh. "What else?" He knew Sara Sidle never went to the doctor unless it was time for an annual physical or she was severely ill. He took her hand. "You don't go to a doctor for vitamins."

"I—I—I'm fine, really. I was tired all the time—I had no energy."

A frown creased his forehead. "Anemic?"

She nodded, her eyes glancing at his. She sighed and placed her fork beside her plate. "It's common—female, vegetarian—not enough iron."

"Sara," he paused, "is there something else?"

She started to get up, but his hand held on her hand, the other circled her shoulders.

"What's going on, honey?"

The sound of his voice, soft, persuasive, touched a well hidden emotion in Sara and she looked away, drew a breath, trying to prepare a response. She felt his fingers caress her shoulder.

"If you are pregnant, I am—I am…"

The smile across his face when she turned finished his sentence.

"I'm not," Sara mumbled. She had seen his face and a subject they had never discussed became painfully apparent to her.

Suddenly, the silence between them seemed to become palpable with hesitation as neither knew what to say.

"Sara," Grissom arm had left her shoulder and moved to her chin. Gently, he turned her face to his, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and cupped her face. "It's not just anemia, is it?"

When she shook her head, he lifted her from the chair, wrapped arms around her, and held her tightly against his chest. At some point, he heard her whisper, "I'm sorry."

They moved together to the sofa and he pulled her into an embrace between his legs and arms adjusting Sara so she was leaning against his chest.

"Why don't you start at the beginning? Tell me what's happened," he whispered.

"I didn't want you to worry," she said. "You had so much on you before you left—everything at the lab—I didn't want—I didn't know—not until I went to the doctor." She stopped, realizing she was not making sense. She took his hand and threaded her fingers with his. "I messed up my patch—right after Greg's beating—just forgot it and I thought my cycle was off." She made an attempt to laugh but it sounded more like a strangled cough. "The doctor did a lot of tests—quickly found I was anemic—asked a lot of questions." She had taken his hand and was holding it against her chest.

Grissom held her, placing his mouth near her ear, he said, "What else?"

"That's most of it. There were these abnormal cells on my cervix," she drew out her last word. "Had those burned off, had this probe put up my—vagina—not in a pleasant way," she tried to laugh. "But I'm fine now," she managed a smile. "I had time to heal before you got home. You had enough to worry about—and—and it wasn't such a big deal." Her voice trailed into a whisper.

"Sara, I'm sorry—sorry I wasn't here."

Her fingers came to his lips. "Shhhh—you needed time away."

Grissom hugged her tightly. "You're sure you are okay? Everything checked out—you've been back for a follow-up?"

"Yeah, I go back in six months, but I'm fine—fine." She turned and snuggled against his shoulder. "We should take a real vacation one day—together—go see a rainforest, or the Galapagos or the Pantanal."

Grissom kissed her hair; he agreed, and he suspected there was more she wasn't saying. "We will, honey." His hand ran up and down her arm. He chuckled, "as soon as we decide to announce this." His finger waggled between the two of them.

"Not yet," Sara said quickly. "I value this privacy—just us—I'm not ready for everyone to know. I like this for now—I know the time is coming when someone finds out, or maybe we will announce 'us' at Frank's one morning." Her fingers played across his chest. "But not yet."

He kissed her again. "I'm happy to be home—I'm happy you are fine." He wrapped a leg around her leg. "Can we stay here for twenty-four hours?"

She giggled. "Yeah."

Of course, they did not remain on the sofa until the next day; they cleaned the kitchen, somehow ended up back in bed, slept a few hours, woke each other up and began a long, slow play of what Sara called "welcome home sex" with more laughter, more relaxed fun, and two new items for Sara—ones Grissom pulled out of his suitcase.

"Black and red!" Sara stood on her knees in the middle of the bed holding the silk panties in front of her. She rechecked the label. "I can't believe you bought these! Shut your eyes!" She bounced from the bed and quickly shed her pants and pulled the red ones on. "Now look!" She twirled twice before he reached out and pulled her into bed, a low growl coming from his lungs.

"I don't know why you like these things," Grissom said as his hands slid around her waist and under the lace.

"Because we are the only ones who know—it's our fantasy—you look at me and see sexy lingerie not some grungy blue overall."

The bed was large enough for them to roll twice before he held her in one place and moved under the covers. And by some magical working of his lips and teeth, he reappeared in minutes with the red panties in his mouth. She giggled as she carefully folded the silk in a small square and placed it on the bedside table as his hands played along her ribs and chest.

"I'm wearing these to work," she announced with a laugh. "You won't be able to think when I walk in the room!"

Grissom was already moving down her belly using only his mouth, hands remained clasped to her sides. He mumbled something that sounded like "one thing I'm thinking about now," as he moved below her belly button.

This time Sara let him play with her as a child does a rag doll or as a scientist with a microscope. He turned, lifted, probed and separated every part of her, ran fingers across her skin from her knees to her shoulders, rolled her over and began the process with his lips from her collarbone to her thigh. Whispers, quiet laughter, and eventually a rising warmth in both caused their bodies to embrace face-to-face. She held his erection between her legs as he cradled her butt with his hands and moved in an unhurried, leisurely rhythm until she felt the dampness of desire spill from her—realizing by the look on his face it was not just from her. A tightness grew from her spine to her belly as he pulled away, and with a very slight shift in bodies, he was inside her.

As he gently entered, pulled or plunging as deep as possible, she made that quick intake of air and his head briefly rested against hers.

His whispered words filled her ear. "You feel impossibly wonderful," he said.

In the few seconds it took for them to join together, for him to say those few words, Sara knew she could ask and receive anything she wanted from him. He was totally incapable of refusing any wish or request or want. It frightened her to realize the power she had over a man as independent, as private, as reserved as Gil Grissom, and, instantly, she became determined never to ask for anything—to keep him unchanged.

She took his head between her hands and kissed him, deeply, prolonging intimate mouth-to-mouth contact, and began to move her hips against his as he did the same.

In the quietness that followed, Grissom slept. Sara's thoughts returned to the expression she had glimpsed on Grissom's face when he had asked if she were pregnant—delight, excitement, a hint of something else—satisfaction, perhaps. She could not, would not, think about it. He has also been extremely pleased with what they did in bed, and no mention made of pregnancy or babies or children. She had learned long ago that some things are best not told. Finally, after he stirred, waking enough to kiss her, she joined him in sleep.

_A/N: Thanks so much to everyone--especially those who reviewed, sent an email! Knowing Sara--would she really tell Grissom everything? _


	9. Chapter 9

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 9**

Nick and Warrick were laughing in the break room when Sara joined them as they told her a story passed from the day shift of dumpster diving behind one of those all-day buffets. Greg arrived which caused an embellished re-telling of the second-hand story. None of them heard Grissom as he called for Catherine.

The nightmare of the miniature murders was not over and this one arrived with a hidden message.

Nick and Warrick found the building and the intended victim. Sara found Ernie Dell's son who proved to be good with his hands, but no love for his father. From his suggestion, they began the long process of trying to locate foster children.

The young policewoman died on Barbara Tallman's sofa; Grissom noticed the flame in the fireplace after he replayed the video of the scene multiple times, and that's where they found the time-delayed device. After Barbara Tallman died, Grissom pulled all the miniature scenes and case files into his office and began a marathon session of re-reading notes and interviews. Jim Brass was in Grissom's office when Sara entered and left quickly saying she was going home. She had seen the two tumblers on the desk and knew the two men would talk for several hours before either drove home.

Sara shopped for groceries—it was amazing how much the two of them could work up an appetite by being in bed; her thoughts caused her to laugh for the first time in hours. She picked up Hank, changed clothes, and headed to the park. Hank loved to be unleashed in the fenced dog playground and greeted with several other dogs as long-missed playmates. As the two started home, Sara heard the low drone of a familiar vehicle slowly behind her.

"Need a ride, lady?" Grissom's voice came from the cool interior as he opened the window.

"Always," she answered as she climbed inside and made room for Hank to sit beside her. "Did you and Jim figure out who is doing these murders?"

He made some grouchy sound, reached over, petted Hank, and then reached for her hand. "We're off until Saturday night. I need sleep—I need to think about something other than those crime scenes in my office," he glanced in her direction. "And to see you in those black panties." He was smiling.

Together, they cooked spaghetti and sauce with a mixture of vegetables cooked into the thick tomato sauce. Grissom poured two glasses of juice and handed one to Sara along with one of the prescription bottles.

"Iron with Vitamin C helps the iron to be absorbed," he said.

Sara swallowed the capsule, then asked. "How do you know this, Dr. Grissom?"

"I read about iron deficiency—I can't keep my head crammed in a case file for hours, so I just read up on it." He stirred the sauce. "What kind of abnormal cells did you have?"

She had backed against the sink as she drank the orange juice. "When did you have time to look this—to look up abnormal cells?"

Placing a top on the pan of sauce, he turned and placed a hand on either side of her, pinning her against the counter. He kissed her forehead, her nose, and saved her lips for last. "I care about you, Sara. I didn't read much, but some of it is very scary. So…" He kissed her again.

She sighed. "Specifically, it's called CIN—cervical intraepithelial neoplasia which means abnormal cells. I'll return in six months for follow-up. It's nothing to worry about—believe me, I was checked out very thoroughly," she said.

Grissom's arms went around her in a hug that crushed her to his chest. "Honey, I don't say it often enough—I love you—I care about you—I'm sorry I wasn't here." He took her chin and cupped it in his hand, kissed her twice, quickly. "Was there anything—you know—anything we did that caused this?"

She had to laugh at his question. "No, Gil, nothing. It just happens in some women—don't worry—I'm fine."

His finger found the waistband of her jeans. "Let's eat. I need sleep—and those black panties!"

By the time they ate, Sara noticed Grissom was practically propping his eyes open. "Get to bed—I'll clean up and join you." She found him asleep, Hank at his feet. After a quick shower, she crawled into bed, and with only a few thoughts coming into her brain, she fell asleep for what seemed like hours, but when she opened her eyes, bright sunlight shone around the edge of the blinds and she felt a warm hand underneath her shirt, slowly rubbing her back.

"Hey," he whispered.

She did not reply but pushed her hand under his shirt and kissed his chin. She giggled, saying, "That beard has to be trimmed."

"You don't like my new look?"

"I love your looks, but I hate the beard burn I'm hiding."

Her remarks caused a grumbling growl sound; he slid downward, pushing her shirt up as he went and proceeded to gently scrap his chin across her abdomen. "Now I've marked you for life," he laughed as he raised his head to the sound of her howls of protest.

Hank, asleep on their bed, jumped up, barked several times, before Grissom let her go.

"It's a beautiful day, and as much as I would enjoy dessert—let's take a drive, sit in the sun for a few hours," Grissom suggested.

Sara pulled her shirt up to inspect the reddened area on her belly and chest. She heard a snicker from Grissom as he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

With a nap, they could have a semblance of normal life, an afternoon drive to Lake Mead, where they walked and played with Hank, staying out until the stars could be seen, and then driving home without either scheduled for work. They drove by In and Out Burger for two burgers, one dressed, the other with double meat and bread, and a third order for a grilled cheese, and two milkshakes.

At home they found two boxes had been delivered—books Grissom had purchased during his four week sabbatical. As he removed and stacked the books on the floor, Sara picked up several and began to make space on a bookcase shelf.

"Here's one you'll like," he handed a slim book to Sara.

"Herbs—why did you buy this one?"

"For you." He said as he kept pulling books from a box.

Later, Sara watched an old movie, one where Katherine Hepburn stepped backward into a canal, met and fell in love with a handsome man, then left him as she waved from a train.

"I don't like this movie's ending!" She called to Grissom who was reading something on his computer screen.

He chuckled. "Why do you watch it? You know the ending isn't going to change!"

"I like the scenery," she moped. "It's a beautiful place. I want to go there one day."

He looked up, "Going to find your lover?"

She laughed, got up and joined him in their office. "I've found my lover, dear." She leaned over his shoulder. "What are you looking at?"

He half turned, bringing her around to join him in the chair. "Modelers, miniature makers—there's tons of stuff out there. I thought I might find something—anything."

"How many shops are in Vegas?"

"Only two—but he could buy stuff from anywhere."

They sat looking at the screen as he moved from website to website.

"Why don't you make a model—a miniature of something?" Sara asked.

He made a sound before saying, "I'd rather do something else with my favorite real life woman." His hands circled her waist but before getting to their bed, he set music to play. Sara recognized a familiar Beethoven tune as the first notes sounded, simple before rolling into a complicated harmony of horns and drums. As the song played, and another one would follow, he sat next to Sara and kissed her.

"I love you, Gil."

He clicked out the lights. "The moon is out; let me open the blinds."

"We'll forget—the sun will wake us up."

"No, we'll be underneath the covers." He returned to the bed. "You're wearing too many clothes."

"So are you—oh! I've ripped your shirt!"

The shirt disappeared. "I knew the black ones would be perfect." He said as his palms made small circles across her belly before hooking his thumbs under the lace. He had managed to sit between her knees as Sara lay back in bed. The sight of her in sexy black lace was enough to harden him and touching her intimately caused a surge in desire. He stroked and explored, bent to kiss her all the while watching her face in the moonlight. The panties stayed on a little longer as he used his fingers against the silk fabric to stimulate her; Sara's writhing movements signaled a readiness as he felt the dampness on the cloth.

"You're so soft and wet inside."

"You—hurry, please." She strained against his hand, her body wanting more.

He moved both hands and had the panties off in one swift motion.

She gasped; he made a sound like a moan, and then there was only their breathing until a raspy, deep throated name was uttered, "Sara."

Sara answered by smothering his mouth with kisses, and then she turned her face to his shoulder in a deep shuddering, almost violent, cry, as her body tensed and shook.

Grissom was past his orgasm and not used to hearing this sound from her. "It's all right, it's all right," he whispered.

In minutes, Sara was limp, lying with eyes closed, perspiring—sweating—until her breathing returned to normal. She looked at him with sparkling eyes and said: "That's what an orgasm is supposed to be!"

He laughed, "I was thinking the same thing."

They both laughed, tickled with unexpected surprise.

"Sara, I do love you—you know that."

"I'm so glad—happy," she said. "Gil, I'm happy."

Grissom's phone rang before the sun was high enough to wake them. Sara grunted something about having the day off.

"Missing teenagers—I'll be back soon. I'm sure they got to a party and _forgot_ to go home."

_A/N: Okay--another chapter with a touch of sweet smut! Review, please! Just to let us know you are reading it--more soon! Do you think these two had a very private, sexual life away from work? :)_


	10. Chapter 10

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 10**

The missing teenagers were found—and Grissom was not the only one pulled from late sleep on a Saturday morning. When he called, everyone showed up, searched roadways, and ball fields, interviewed other teenagers and their parents, processed a load of evidence—including a van—before finding the bodies of the teacher and her student lover.

Grissom was asleep on the sofa when Sara returned with Hank; she let him sleep while she prepared a salad, heated soup and bread, and set their table. She woke him with a kiss.

"Dinner is ready."

"Oh, honey, I need a shower—didn't mean to sleep."

"Eat first, then we'll take a shower," she smiled, and placed a hand on his cheek, letting her thumb rub across his beard.

"It itches," he said.

"Let's eat."

Instead of a shower, she ran a bath, throwing a handful of citrus scented crystals into the water, turning the taps completely open, putting towels on the heated rack. Grissom surprised her by handing her a slim metal blade after he had lathered his face. She had done this twice before tonight, and each time she had nicked his face causing great concern on her part and laughter from him. His response to her question has been given in one word, sweet, warm, sexy, she thought as she leaned closer, moving one thigh against his groin. She put the razor to his skin, and carefully drew it across the lather with a light, careful stroke. She wiped the razor on a towel. With one finger she touched the shaved patch, gently pulled the skin, and touched him with the edge of the razor and scraped again. Wipe, stroke, once, twice, three times; she dipped a washcloth in hot water and pressed the cloth to his shaved skin. He winced at the touch of the hot cloth and then stood perfectly still as she shaved, rinsed, shaved the next area until she had removed his beard and his face was smooth.

She picked up a bottle of soothing skin cream, poured some into the palm of her hand, and closed her hands together before taking his face in her hands and massaging his skin, gently, smoothly. She smiled and backed away.

"No nicks—I knew you could do it." He said as he inspected his face in the mirror.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub watching him. "Why?"

He chuckled. "I decided you had suffered enough—beside Warrick made some comment about your boyfriend today that didn't sound very complimentary." He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it in the direction of the hamper.

"What did he say?"

"Something about finding the wrong underwear." He stepped out of his pants and into the tub.

Sara hand covered her mouth as she laughed. "That was a very long time ago! How did this come up in conversation?"

"He asked me if I knew who your boyfriend was. I made no response so he told me the story of the panty search."

She kept laughing, asking, "What did you say?"

"Nothing, just drove faster." He had gotten into the tub and stretched out. "Coming?"

She stood by the tub, looking at his naked body. He seemed younger, his face relaxed, and his voice had the deep rumble of expectations. She grinned, feeling a growing pleasurable ache deep inside. She quickly discarded her clothes, got into the tub, and knelt astride him, her knees against his thighs.

"In the tub," she said, quietly, as one hand circled him in a most intimate way which started, or continued what had begun with the way her hands had caressed his face as she shaved him.

The bath tub was large enough for both of them, but making love in a tub of water had been a new experience for both. A few days after they had moved in—and Sara had peeled the protective plastic off the new tub—she had filled it within inches of the lip, added a small amount of nice smelling fragrance, and closed the door. They were still in early days of intimacy outside of the bed and Sara wasn't sure what he would think of her bathing in a tub—of her soaking in a tub. Or perhaps it was she who was uncertain of the implied pleasure of the big tub. But she had closed the door, dropped her clothes, slipped into the water, and held her breath for one long minute as the sensation of hot water with a scent of citrus seeped into her skin, and Sara Sidle, at an age past thirty, learned the sacred ritual of long soaks in hot water. Of the wonderful feeling of submerging one's body in the fluid of life, and letting thoughts disappear.

A week later, Grissom brought up her disappearances behind a closed door. "So—are you going to let me in on what's going on in the bathroom?" They were eating and he raised one eyebrow in a very subtle but sexy way that Sara loved.

"I'm taking a bath."

He made a slight nod of his head. "It's a big tub."

She grinned. They had showered together several times in the small shower in her apartment and had christened the new shower in the same way the night they had moved in. She propped her chin on her palm and said, "Do you think we can soak together?"

That deep rolling chuckle gave her an answer. "I think we can do more than soak."

Tonight, Sara's hand cupped against his groin as she stretched along side him; there were certain things they had not figured out, but the basics were pretty easy. Kissing was easy and the hot water, wet surfaces, even holding one's breath, turned basic feelings into erotic touches. Movements came automatically as passion took over. Sara could imagine being in fast flowing water, of waves gently washing over their bodies. She felt her belly roll, her hips jerked as if someone was pulling a tight thread from her center. She felt the warm breaths against her neck as Grissom moved faster; she knew she was on the edge of ecstasy; she had to jump into the pool.

She hesitated, whispered, "Come." He was on top of her now, moving faster, deliberately controlled, as she rode the excitement to climax unable to speak as she fell back; his hand caught her head and managed to keep her nose above the water. But he was not finished.

Grissom pulled her from the tub, dripping water as he back-walked her to the bed, flung aside the covers and pushed both of them on to the bed. He pulled covers over them creating a warm shelter before continuing what had started in the bathtub. He stroked her folds, found the swollen bud with his fingers, and rolled it gently between thumb and finger. He literally kissed the water from the surface of her skin, bringing a whirlwind of emotions swelling inside her.

"Gil." The way she said his name was a plea, an appeal for more, as her hips twisted, rose to meet his mouth. She grabbed his shoulder, fingernails sinking in his skin. "You, now!" She knew where he was taking her, but in her current state, she wanted him—the engorged erection she had felt earlier, seen as he covered them, even now could feel hot and throbbing against her leg. He continued to stimulate her with his fingers, his tongue, his lips. Her body moved in the grip of intense pleasure

With a skill she had developed over several months, she moved her leg, sliding her foot under his arm, tugging with her knee, as she said, voice low and husky with desire, "Now! Quick!"

He let his body move, gliding across her belly, her chest, pausing to kiss each breast before coming to her mouth.

"Ahhh," he breathed, and lowered himself to her.

Days and nights, working shifts and off-days rolled by with the usual madness and mayhem of Las Vegas. As often as possible, Grissom paired with Sara for assignments; he liked to have her close and if he were truthful, he worked better with her than any of the others. Some times he had to send her with someone else and some nights crime exploded from hour to hour and they all worked separate scenes.

Sara and Catherine were working a home invasion-robbery when an early dawn crash occurred on a major thoroughfare and as everyone else was already elbow deep in other investigations, he sent Sara. The crash sight spread over four corners of expensive property, involved two cars, a city bus, and a group of pedestrians and had the potential of major involvement with lawsuits. She documented for hours as early morning traffic increased and spectators gathered.

Finally, Grissom showed up to assist, taking her camera as she turned. She smiled as his fingers slowed and stroked her arm as he removed the camera. She mouthed a "thanks" as he took her sketches, and a few minutes later, he reappeared with a bottle of water. Together, they finished the work and watched as the last car, a red one, was hauled onto a flat-bed truck.

"I guess this carnage could have been worse," Sara said.

"How many people?" Grissom asked.

"Twenty hurt, two dead. Two in the Mustang, one in the Honda, twelve on the bus, and seven on the sidewalk. Honda driver and one pedestrian killed. The driver of the Mustang said something ran across the street, over corrected and all this happened."

"Breakfast?" He asked.

Again, she smiled. "Yeah—at home if you can make it."

It was his turn to smile. "I'll meet you at the lab. We can unload and file all of this—be finished and get home before noon."

The crowd had dissipated, wandering back to hotel rooms and twenty-four hour buffets, leaving a trail of debris, cups, bottles, candy wrappers, and assorted litter. The owners of destroyed property—a coffee shop, a camera shop, a dress boutique, and a jewelry store—were huddled with assorted insurance agents and the traffic patrolmen were directing traffic through the intersection.

Grissom attempted to leave minutes after Sara left but a stack of messages, a professed important conversation with the Under Sheriff, a stop in the hall for a briefing from Brass caused a delay much longer than he had anticipated and the sun was no longer overhead by the time he left.

Sara's cell phone chirp woke her from a nap on the sofa.

"I'm sorry," were his first words.

"It's fine—I took a nap." She was up and heading to the kitchen. "I've got lunch ready—or almost."

"I'll be there in ten minutes." He paused. "Sara, we have tomorrow off—let's get outside."

She smiled. "Sounds perfect."

Home and their time together was their quiet oasis; they read, watched movies, listened to music, and walked Hank in the park. At times, arranging days off seemed impossible, but by modifying the schedule, Grissom could work a double shift and be at home at the same time as Sara. No one seemed to notice.

They ate, lay together on the sofa and watched a movie—Grissom missed the end of it because he was sleeping. Knowing they were at the beginning of twenty-four hours without prying eyes, with no need to hide affectionate contact, the two seemed to crave the touch of each other and Sara stayed on the sofa, watching him sleep.

More times than they would count, their quiet night, the scheduled day off, was interrupted by the persistent ringing of Grissom's phone. And tonight, the phone beeped and rattled against the table as he slept. Sara reached for the phone, recognized the number, and kissed him awake.

"Better answer this one," she said.

He shook himself awake and answered with "Grissom" in a tone that indicated his mood. Closing the phone, he looked at Sara with sad eyes.

"Multiple bodies. We'll all need to work this one."

"How many?" Sara asked as she moved to get up.

"Six--showgirls living in one house."

A/N: Up to 'Empty Eyes'--enjoy! Thanks for a review, your comments!


	11. Chapter 11

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 11**

Sara's frightened shout brought Grissom to the bedroom with lightning speed, faster than the much younger Warrick could get from the next room, and he was almost on the floor with her before he realized medics were needed—a victim, not a suspect. He wiped blood from the scratch on her face; her eyes pleading with him to withhold the concern she could see in his face. Warrick, half a dozen policemen, and an EMT stood near them; the technician handing him gauze squares, ointment, and adhesive strips.

After the killer of the showgirls was apprehended, and Sara cried as Grissom drove them home and fixed her tea, he made a phone call. They both needed sunshine and open space and time to disappear from phone contact and prying eyes.

Sara often craved water, missing the sounds and smells of a childhood lived near the ocean, which made Lake Mead a major attraction for her. By accident, they had discovered a simple and private outdoor activity they enjoyed—the Colorado River below Hoover Dam in a small boat. Months before, during a meandering drive to the dam, Grissom noticed a sign for canoe and kayak rentals posted beside the highway and followed directions to find the place. Twice they went with a guide along the twelve mile stretch of the Colorado River below the dam learning the basics of maneuvering a small boat around rocks and tiny beaches, the hazards and enjoyment of floating in the narrow canyon, and the total isolation of being in a place with no cell phone reception and no one interested in who they were. As months passed, they gained confidence and skill as they paddled the swift flowing, cold river.

Hank would follow either of them into a fire and he certainly followed them to water. He had learned the sight of his special dog vest meant a car ride that carried him to water and a fun boat trip with the two people he loved. As soon as Grissom appeared with the bright orange vest, Hank was sitting at the door. Even Sara laughed as she collected water and food, two old blankets and hats, packing everything into a waterproof sack.

At this time of year, few people would be on the river during mid-week which added to the potential for complete privacy—something they found exhilarating in an unstated way. Once, only once, they had been on the river, sunning on a small sand beach, when one thing led to another, and they were suddenly in the middle of passionate sex under a clear blue sky just a few feet from the river where anyone passing would have seen what was going on. Afterwards, Sara laughed so hard that Grissom had poured a bottle of water over her head. But he had laughed, saying next time they would get behind a rock.

While it had not happened again, each trip held potential for the same passion to spark—if circumstances happened to find them alone and the sun was warm and they could find the right rock. And after the cruel deaths of six young women, both needed a change of pace, of place, and, without saying it, needed to find that rock.

The owner of the rental place drove them down to the drop-off point in his truck, talking the entire trip about water levels, the low number of visitors at this time of year, reminding the two of the temperature of the water, and assisting as they stowed their duffle and got Hank into the canoe.

"Before three!" He called as they shoved away from the bank. The man had been in business for years and did not want to search for his customers in the dark.

Grissom paddled, or he used the paddle as a rudder and let the current carry them downstream, passing several slim beaches and gravel shoals. Hank sat in front of Sara, between her knees, as she occasionally pushed with her paddle, but more often used it as a pointer to something she wanted Grissom to see. They talked about the water—eddies, boils and strainers, the weather, the man in the truck, but nothing about work.

After they had pulled the canoe into a cove surrounded by rocks the size of cars, fed themselves and Hank, Sara spread their blankets. The sky was a brilliant cerulean stripe above the canyon and as they watched a red tail hawk was chased by two smaller birds. Hank stretched at their feet, then without cause, he moved to the sand, rolled around to make a depression and curled in the bed of his own making.

Grissom's thumb gently caressed the bright red cut on Sara's cheek. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sara covered his fingers with her hand. "I can still see her eyes—so frightened—and then nothing."

"You did everything you could, Sara." His hand moved to hold her face and he brought his lips to hers. "We should have searched the rooms—before you got there."

She moved closer. "It seems life has become a throw-away commodity—six girls dead because of this one crazy man."

The two lay together on the sand, the sun warming their bodies, a bird call breaking the silence. Sara placed her head on Grissom's shoulder, her hand on his chest and gently massaged him. She knew his mind was in another place or time by the worried wrinkles around his eyes. Her fingers moved to his temple. She knew he was thinking of the models in his office.

"What are you thinking?"

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He was beginning to despair of ever finding the murderer. Almost eight months had slipped by since the first one and he was no closer to finding this mad man. Since the Tallman death, there had been nothing. Grissom knew he was becoming a little obsessed with the miniatures and their maker—he woke up in the middle of sleep and thought about every murder, seeing Ernie Dell shoot himself. He had visited the model maker and hobby shops in Vegas. His mind ran in circles, other cases and crimes came along, but he returned time and again to this case.

"I don't know why I am so obsessed—fascinated—by all of this, Sara. Four murders—five if we count Barbara Tallman, six if we count Ernie Dell. I'm against a wall and the next victim is out there—no idea that he or she is on the list, some personal part of their life is being made into a model with their death foretold."

She leaned over his face and kissed his forehead, each eye, his nose, and his mouth. "Stop. We came out here to forget—not talk about work and death." She stood, reaching out and pulling him to her.

Light blazed up in his blue eyes as he wrapped arms around her waist. She closed her eyes and placed her mouth at the opening of his shirt, tasting the flesh at the hollow of his throat. She began to unfasten each small button of his shirt until she could place her hand over his heart. Heat from his body and the sun's warmth seemed to join and melt her hand to his body.

Some sound came from his chest, a groan of need or want, as he broke from her, grabbed a blanket and led her a few feet to a tiny recess between two of the boulders. He bunched the blanket into the space, rolled his shirt into a small pillow, then undressed Sara, lifting her tee shirt over her head, unsnapping her pants, and pushing them into a puddle around her ankles. Sara stood in pale lavender panties and matching bra and for the first time in hours, a genuine smile formed on his face.

His eyes followed his hands as he touched her shoulders, her waist, and hips. "I can't believe how beautiful you are," he said.

She wanted to say, _No, no, I'm not—I've never been beautiful_, but instead she unhooked her bra and let it drop. When she did that, he pulled her against him and she leaned into the smoothness of his chest. Slowly, he lowered both of them to the ground and kissed the soft places along her neck, between her breasts, and her thighs.

They made love, slow, easily, with the sound of the river's current echoing softly against the canyon walls and Hank asleep in the sun. As he moved above her, Sara saw an eagle soaring high above the river. Grissom's face came into focus as he touched her face before nestling his face into her neck and, within moments, consciousness was lost. Yet Sara had a moment when everything around them was amplified, the movement of their bodies, the sound of the water, the feel of the rough blanket on her back became more vivid, more dazzling, more real. Suddenly, she knew how perishable all life really was as she gave over to the instinctive drive of passion.

Afterward, they lay together, nude, warmed by the sun and by the heat of their own bodies. Hank woke, wandered over, and curled at their feet, quickly resuming his nap.

Grissom chuckled, tightened his arm around her, and said, "Hank has a good idea." His eyes drifted closed and in minutes his deep breathing indicated heavy sleep. Sara listened and lay still, but she did not sleep.

In the midst of their work with the showgirls' killer, she had gotten a call about her mother. No one knew the truth about her mother—Grissom knew a little, had even met her once in San Francisco—but he did not know of the current dilemma; he would want to help, to make things right. As Grissom slept in the sun she spread his shirt over his body when goose bumps appeared on her arms, lay her head on his shoulder and tried to think of a plan for her mother—a solution for both of them.

The problem with her mother, that part of Sara's life that remained secret, brought back the darkness, the wrongness of what had happened, of what Sara had tried to evict from her own memory. She cupped herself tightly against Grissom's side and waited until her thoughts passed; or she stopped her mind from tangling with the most recent development.

The sun was still above the canyon when Grissom woke, a grin on his face, as he kissed her. "Sara," he said, taking her face in his hands, he kissed her again. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Fine, I'm fine—we need to get started."

His smile grew as he shifted, found a bit of lavender underneath his butt, and said, "Panty search—lady, do these belong to you?"

_A/N: Enjoy!_


	12. Chapter 12

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 12**

Sara took two days of leave telling Grissom it was time she visited her mother.

"Is she okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, she keeps asking me to come—I'll leave after shift, stay a couple of days, just to check on her."

Sara was always very private about her mother; Grissom knew she had killed Sara's abusive father, knew she had been institutionalized for a brief time, knew she had served a short prison sentence before probation released her to some type of community living arrangement. He had met her once—an older, smaller version of Sara, thin as a twig, with nervous eyes, a soft handshake, and, as he was introduced as Sara's boss, she praised her daughter for her brilliance in a voice so quiet he had to lean to her to hear her speak. He tried to get Sara to talk about her parents, her mother, but his gentle probing usually brought short responses and a change of subject.

Instead of an early morning flight, Sara left at noon, giving them a quiet interval together before she left. For some reason, they always had awkward moments before parting—he held her after she packed and she fumbled with her words.

"I love you, Gil. I'll be back on Wednesday."

He held her tightly, "Take your time, honey. You don't see your mother enough." He felt her sigh against his neck. "If you need to stay another day…" Her head nodded.

He drove her to the airport for her flight; she reminded him to eat and walk Hank. He repeated what had been said earlier, held her hand knowing she needed something, but uncertain of what it was. There was some unspoken current stirring within her, but she refused to talk, and he did not pry. She would tell him, eventually, he thought. He walked through the airport, using his identification badge to go to the gate with Sara and she waited until the last minute to board the plane. A quick glance around, and he leaned to kiss her; she smiled, said she was fine, and disappeared.

Leaving the airport, his thoughts were troubled by Sara's quiet departure, by problems at work, and finally returned to the unknown killer who left the miniature crime scenes. He turned into a strip mall and parked in front of a store he had visited before; he sat in his vehicle watching an airplane—Sara's flight, he thought—for a few minutes before entering the store. He had a list of items he wanted.

Sara's window seat gave her a view of the southwest desert, brown for miles, before reaching mountains with traces of snow visible from above. In her mind, she followed a map, recognizing certain landmarks from the air, finally seeing the long green valley of central California as the plane began its descent to the coast. She had grown up in the state but she rarely called it home—too many bad memories and this visit would not change those. Her glimpse of the coastline brought back the few positive memories she had of a childhood gone horribly wrong. She remembered days of playing along the beach—puzzled and curious that she suddenly remembered her mother had been with her.

Travel to her mother's residence was a long one requiring four changes from train to buses and a short walk to the house where Laura Sidle had lived for nearly twenty years. She had resided in a supported group home—one that had managed to survive funding cuts and mental health changes for two decades. Her mother had worked at the same garment factory for years, sewing knit shirts and pants every day for one of the few companies still advertising 'made in USA' labels, but recent changes in her health had meant changes in her employment and was the reason for the recent call to Sara.

Sara deposited her backpack at her feet as she rang the doorbell. The last time she visited there were six women living in the house, all with mental health issues, and, Sara suspected, a shared history of prison. Finally, the door opened—the familiar face of the group home director, welcomed her.

"Sara! Laura said you were coming today, come in." The two women shook hands.

"It's good to see you, Kris, thanks for calling me."

The woman nodded. "Laura is out back—we have a beautiful garden this year and she's always out there."

"What about her job?"

Kris shook her head. "She isn't going back—not after, well, it's all her mind—she can't help what's happening."

"She cut her finger off!" Sara whispered. "When did her mind get to that point?"

They had walked through a neat living room and into a large, sunny kitchen. Sara could see her mother in the yard, sitting on a bench with something in her lap.

"She picked all the flowers this morning. Most of the time, she is very lucid—she'll know you—but then something happens and her mind is gone. Her supervisor said it looked like she had caught her finger under the needle of the machine—never happened before—and before anyone could get to her, she picked up the scissors and cut her finger at the knuckle."

Sara took the offered tea.

Kris continued, "Her hand will be fine, but the finger is gone—she just kept cutting until someone stopped her—and did not realize what she had done." Kris shook her head. "We had not noticed any big change until this—she's always been so quiet. She's on leave now, but she can't go back. She has a retirement fund with the factory so she'll have an income, and I think she will have some kind of insurance through them." The woman leaned against the countertop and drank her tea. Sara watched her mother. "Our—her biggest problem is she can't continue to live here—we have time to plan, but she will need more care, someone to watch her."

"Is it Alzheimer's?"

"That's a definition for dementia, Sara. My best guess would be no—but what's going on is progressive—maybe from an old head injury. Her doctor made the appointment after the finger incident, so maybe we will learn more from the specialist."

Sara sighed. "She had enough head injuries when my father was alive; I guess she's lucky to have lived this long without permanent damage." She scoffed at her statement, knowing they both had permanent damage. "What do I need to do?"

"Visit with her. The appointment tomorrow is at one o'clock, but I talked to the factory manager and he said you could call him any time—about her leave, insurance, retirement—he's working to get things started as soon as possible." The woman handed a folder to Sara. "I—these are places, good facilities, that provide good care—I thought you might want to look at some of them while you're here." Kris' hand touched Sara's arm. "She doesn't have to move tomorrow or next week, but we have to make plans."

Sara nodded.

"She'll be happy to see you."

Sara nodded again; Kris was a good woman, she thought, doing much more than what was required for her job.

When she went outside, her mother greeted her in the same way she had done for years but when Sara asked about her hand, wrapped in white gauze and tape, her mother's look changed to one of vacant puzzlement. Sara sat beside her.

"I don't know—I guess I hurt it—you know how I've always been so clumsy! Why are you here—are you still working? I tell everyone about my smart daughter working in Las Vegas." Laura Sidle talked quietly, but rapidly, her hands gathering up the flowers in her lap, arranging and rearranging them.

"I came to see you, Mom." Sara reached for her mother's hand and held it between her own hands. "This looks pretty serious—do you remember where you injured it?"

Her mother's eyes brightened. "At work—now I remember. It got caught in the machine—after all these years. I've never had one injury, not even a scratch, but I think I have stitches now." She turned to glance at the house. "Kris is staying with me while I'm off."

The two women continued to sit in the yard and talked about the weather, flowers, foods, an old movie Laura had watched the night before, until Kris brought lemonade and cookies out to them. Kris glanced at Sara who shrugged and nodded indicating that nothing unusual had occurred.

Sara said, "Mom couldn't remember what happened to her hand at first, but then remember hurting it at work."

Laura made a quiet laugh. "You both know how I'm always bumping into things—just clumsy—always have been."

Sara called Grissom later telling him most of the story—memory problems of her mother, the physician's appointment for the next day—but she could not tell him about the finger or the impending move into a long-term care facility. An institution, Sara thought, another institution where people, or patients, or residents, were kept locked inside, away from society. Alone, in a hotel room, tears came as she ended the call—her mother had never recovered from the beatings, from killing her husband, from the loss of a son and the absence of a daughter, and now, to be institutionalized again, the pain would be unbearable in her coherent moments. Sara almost called Grissom again, but to do so would mean telling him everything. She couldn't do that right now.

The next morning she talked with the manager at the factory, learning he was a kind man determined to do the right thing with his employees. He was extremely generous with benefits for retired employees assuring Sara her mother would have a retirement package that included insurance.

Sara took the folder and studied the information on care facilities—all advertising made each place sound like a paradise on earth. Deciding she had time to see at least one place before her mother's appointment, Sara caught a bus. She did not call, thinking an unexpected visit would let her see what services the place offered in the middle of the morning, and how they treated a stranger. The place was similar to another facility she often visited in Vegas.

_A/N: Leave us a review or comment! Thanks to you who always do--now you know about Sara's mother--another layer of stress!_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Short chapter--to get Sara back to Vegas, Enjoy!_

**Th****at Last Year in Vegas Chapter 13**

Sara was surprised; after explaining her purpose, a young woman showed her the entire facility, a quiet place built in a square with an enclosed courtyard in its center. A few people were watching television; another group was sitting around a table with a board game. Doors were opened to the courtyard and people freely walked in and out; Sara could see a few people in wheelchairs sitting outside.

"We have one unit for those who are no longer able to sit or move around—those in the last stage of this disease." The young woman paused.

"I don't need to see it," Sara said. She had seen enough in the vacant faces of the others. "How long do most people live with this?"

The woman was thoughtful for a long minute. "I'll give you some literature we have. Most do not live more than ten years. How long has your mother—how long have you known?"

Sara explained—her mother had been working, functioning on a day-to-day basis until a few weeks ago. She told the stranger of how her mother had cut off her finger while at work without realizing what she had done, of several "forgetful" moments, of the scheduled physician's appointment. As Sara left, her heart felt as if was held by a clinched fist, she realized she had told this young woman more than she had revealed to Grissom—but he had no experience with this, he already had so much to worry about, she reasoned.

She had taken the forms given to her; the young woman's last explanation of their waiting list—at least a year—and the need to make plans for an easy transition for her mother.

The physician had Laura's medical history, the results of scans and previous tests in a thick file, asked a few questions of Sara and Kris before turning his attention to Laura. The appointment ran over two hours; Sara and Kris were observers as a complex battery of neuropsychological tests were given to Sara's mother. Laura answered many of the questions correctly and could be very evasive when she was unable to provide an answer.

Once, after the examiner asked a question, Laura laughed quietly and said, "You know the answer as well as I do," but she could not answer the question.

Kris looked at Sara. "She's been doing that for a while—skillful at covering up."

Sara said, "She was doing that when I was a child."

In the end, prescription medications were given; the doctor explained the predicted scenario unable to provide a timeline other than there would be a decline in abilities.

Afterwards, Sara asked if Kris would join them for dinner in a place overlooking the ocean. "We've been going there since I was a child."

The café was one known by locals, tucked away in a neighborhood of expensive houses where there had once been small family homes with postage-stamp size yards. Now, houses soared two, three levels and had no yards, just paved parking spaces.

"All this has changed except for the tables—I'm pretty sure I carved my name on one of these," Sara said as they followed a hostess through a maze of filled tables.

The enjoyment on the face of her mother made it easy to believe everything would return to normal once the bandage came off her hand, and as they laughed, talked about the food, the view of the ocean, Sara had to turn away several times to prevent her mother from noticing the tears in her eyes.

Later, in privacy, Sara talked with Kris. "I have some money saved," Sara said after they returned to the house. "What can I do to keep her here until a place opens up—in a good place—I don't want her to be locked up."

Kris understood Sara's meaning. "She can stay until—if she had a companion, she could stay until…"

Sara nodded.

"I can find someone—someone who has done this with others—trustworthy—good with this disease to be here during the day. For now, she's sleeping well, doesn't wake up at night." She paused, then continued, "Sara, we have time to plan. Tomorrow, before you leave, visit a few more facilities and get admission packets, get her name on several waiting lists. In six months, a year, hopefully we'll have that long to make the transition."

"I can pay…"

Kris nodded. "Your mother has some savings and she'll have her retirement check and social security as soon as we can get it started. You are listed on all her records—she has one credit card—did you know that? She doesn't spend much—never has."

"I feel like I'm abandoning her—just leaving everything with you."

Kris was more than twenty years older than Sara; she had known Laura Sidle, and her daughter, for years. At first, she had been surprised at the obvious distance between the two, almost as if two strangers were meeting, yet their mannerisms and appearances were so similar it was difficult to image the two were not close. Only in the past few years had Sara written letters, called and visited on a regular basis. Kris suspected the man who came with her on one occasion had something to do with this change in contact.

"You are not. We don't abandon people we love. All the women here love Laura—it's rare to have a group who has stayed together as long as this one." Kris said. She knew she was going to say more, unsure of how Sara would react. "These women have survived, have found a way to live with a horrible, tragic past. Your mother does not talk about what happened when you were a child—but she's very proud of you. Don't let this development with your mother stop you from living, enjoying life. We'll work things out."

Sara's mind ran constantly through all the facts, possibilities, probabilities, even attempting to add up the financial costs of a companion. She read everything she had been given about dementia, Alzheimer's, and treatment. She tossed and turned until daylight, got out of bed and called Grissom. Hearing his voice was enough to bring tears to her eyes and the way she said his name was enough.

His next words were, "How's your mother? What's wrong?"

Her answer was silence as she inhaled deeply, trying to steady her voice. "Not good—okay. There's too much to tell over the phone—I'll be home later today." Her voice regained its balance as she talked. "She was injured at work—she won't be going back and now I need…" she hesitated.

"What kind of accident? Do you need to stay?"

"No, no, there's nothing I can do—what's happening at the lab? How is Hank? Does he miss me?"

She heard his deep chuckle. "Hank misses you—I miss you. What time is your flight? Work has been the usual—that nightclub promoter, Drops, do you remember him?"

She grunted an affirmative answer.

"He's involved in a case—passenger shot, blood all over Drops—there must have been fifty bullets or casings, and, of course, Drops claims to be completely innocent, just riding from club to club and knows nothing."

"I'll be back in time to help tonight," she said.

She managed to visit three other facilities, all similar to the first one and not what Sara expected to find. Each place was more like a home than an institution for confinement of those unable to function in the world. She took forms from each place and received similar information about waiting times—at least six months before a room would be available. Sara tried to have a positive view of her mother's situation—hopefully, she could stay in her home for months with a daily companion. The four facilities were similar but unlike the nursing homes she had been in; she thought, along with her mother's income, if she worked steady overtime, pulled money from savings, the cost would be covered.

By the time she took her seat on the return flight to Las Vegas, her head ached; exhausted, she leaned her head against the cool window and slept. She would think of a way to explain all of this to Grissom after their shift.

_A/N: Read, review, next chapter soon!_


	14. Chapter 14

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 14**

Sara's flight arrived on time; however, Grissom had to step out of a meeting with the Undersheriff to answer his phone, saying he could be at the airport in thirty minutes. Quickly, she said she would take a cab and be at the lab in an hour. With whispered thanks, he returned to explaining the evidence of DNA and its connection to Demetrius James.

If she worked, she could push her concerns, the problems, and troubling apprehension about her mother into a closet in her brain. She had done it for years when circumstances in her life became overwhelming. She would concentrate on work—a systematic process in the middle of chaos. At home, she changed clothes, and was standing in the lab talking to Sophia and Nick when Grissom returned with a despondent Greg—he was off the case.

The search warrant was delivered and in a search of the James house, Sara found evidence of the younger James son being in the limo. When Greg overheard Aaron James say he did not kick the girl out of the car, it tied one active case to another and when Sara found the bruise on the body, it matched the shoe print of Drops' dead passenger. It was one of those cases where no one thought the victim received justice.

She had barely had time to say hello to Grissom at the lab; he had quietly asked if she was okay. She checked the schedule and drove home, stopping to pick up Hank. The dog never hid his excitement at seeing her and she wished she could run with him the few blocks home but he was happy to sit beside her and have her hand on his shoulder.

She showered, put on pajamas, ate, took all the forms and information she had been given and went to bed to read. Grissom called twice saying he would be home within the hour. She made a list of information she would need for each facility; each application required a deposit fee which she wrote in a column. She sighed knowing this was only the beginning.

Grissom found her asleep in the middle of the bed, curled with his pillow tucked against her chest and Hank's head resting on her calf. This was a familiar sight; he worked too long, she fell asleep. He picked up the scattered papers and her notes. His hand passed over his face as he read; he saw her scribbles with numbers and realized she was adding up expenses—this was the reason for her visit. His hand raked through his hair; he should have been with her. In the office, he found an empty folder, placed everything inside, and took it back to the bed. They could talk about this after sleep.

He showered, moved Hank to his own bed in the kitchen, and crawled into bed. Almost immediately, she rolled to his side. At first, he thought she would wake, but a deep breathe and an arm over his chest settled them in a close, comfortable hold and in seconds, he was asleep.

The smell of food brought Sara from a very sound sleep and caused her to wrinkle her nose before her eyes were opened. The bed moved.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

She looked up to see Grissom's smile, his face, and a plate in one hand, a glass of juice in the other. "Hey." She pushed her hair out of her face.

"I fixed breakfast."

"It smells good." She scooted to sit up. "French toast! I haven't had French toast in months!" She smiled. The plate was filled with egg-battered toast covered with maple syrup and fruit.

He held the plate while she ate, saying he had already eaten while waiting for her to wake. He talked about what she had missed at work, told her he had started a new project, and waited until she had finished before asking about her mother.

"Tell me about your mother," he said. He placed the plate on the bedside table and picked up the folder shaking out its content.

Sara shook her head. "I—I didn't realize how bad she had gotten. I knew she seemed forgetful, but she—Gil, I don't know her. She's always been a stranger, even when—before my father—died."

Grissom pulled her to him and held her for several minutes. He said nothing.

Sara breathed deeply; she had meant to have a plan before telling him about her mother. "She cut herself at work and she didn't remember—she cut her finger off with scissors and did not realize she was doing it!"

He did not react to this news but continued to hold her. His silence helped; Sara told him about the testing, visiting the facilities, the waiting lists for admission, the need for a paid companion. She did not speak of the unknown, the disease itself, the turmoil raging inside her, or the cost. When she stopped talking, she realized he had pulled the bed covers around them, his arms were wrapped around her, and, for the first time in days, the stress and tension across her eyes eased.

It was several minutes before Grissom's quiet voice spoke. "We could move Laura here, find a good place for her."

Sara wiped a hand across her eyes. "She would not come here to visit, Gil. I can't imagine she would want to live here—even if she doesn't know where she is." She leaned against his shoulder. "Kris—you met her—said she will find someone to stay with her during the day and I can pay her." She managed a laugh, mocking, sarcastic. "The mother I never knew—she shakes my hand when we meet, did you know that? Only this time, she couldn't even do that because her hand was bandaged! I know she's had a horrible life, she killed her abusive husband, my father who would have abused me, I'm sure, but she never wanted me—not even afterwards, and now she needs me and she doesn't even know it."

"Sara," Grissom whispered. He picked up the sheet of paper with her notes. "This—paying for the companion, the deposit fees—we can do this."

Her head started to shake.

"Sara, I'll help you. This is what we do—together—besides, I have more money than you do. We'll set up an account, or we'll deposit enough in Laura's account to cover these expenses. I'll help you put all this together—is there a prognosis? A timeline, I guess?"

As they talked, the fear lessened; Sara's apprehension diminished. She could think and plan. She smiled at some funny remark Grissom made; he noticed. Within minutes, the planning, the worried and anxious looks on faces disappeared. Sara turned, took his face in her hands, and kissed him.

The kiss turned from one given to receiving and as quickly as a second ticks on the clock, passion came into their bed. Quietly, he rediscovered her body as she responded. His soft hands caressed and stroked, arousing and opening emotions that were on a new level, beyond what she had been hiding for days.

There were times in their lovemaking when he teased, held her on the cusp of explosion, played with her in an affectionate, loving way. But today, he assured her of unconditional love in his unhurried way. He kissed his way from lips to knees, admired, expressed pleasure in her responses, and made her laugh. He framed her face with tender, groping hands, her hair, her neck and throat, her slender body, her firm hips. No words or thoughts were needed as he was drawn by the scent and warmth of the woman beside him.

In the quiet afternoon, Grissom clearly knew Sara wanted, needed to be loved differently as he bent to kiss her face. Gently, his fingertips touched her forehead, traced lightly from her eyebrow to her chin, and then bent his finger so his knuckle slid along her neck.

Softly, he said: "How beautiful you are."

She smiled as though he had presented her with a surprise gift. He gently pulled her shirt off, and following the movement of delicate shadows, he kissed her shoulder, the valley between her breasts, and moved to her belly. He felt the muscles across her abdomen flex as he touched his tongue to her skin; he heard a low rumble, a pleasing sound of delight.

His hands slipped to her backside and he gently clutched and released and separated her butt, finally allowing one finger to trace from the top of its cleft to between her legs. He kissed her inner thigh, lifted her leg to his shoulder and began a tender exploration.

Once, she said his name. He stretched one arm to find her hand. Her body tensed as he cupped his hand against her sex, two fingers inserted inside her; he pressed, stroked, and pressed again until he felt contractions ripple against his palm. Quickly, he pulled his hand away and pushed himself up, feeling the rush of heat as their bodies touched. Her arms went around his neck as they kissed and he groaned as he thrust his erection into the warm, damp welcoming center of passion.

"Sara," he whispered before clamping lips to hers.

She rose to meet him, her hips lifted, twisted, settled into rhythm with his. Her orgasm had started before he entered her and waves of contractions hit her—she lost control, conscious thought halted as her back arched, an intense purr vibrated through her lungs. Grissom heard her release through his own building climax and within seconds, he plunged into the same whirlpool of passion.

Later, after both slept for a short time, they lay in bed as lovers do, neither wanting the afternoon to end. Grissom place a hand on her face. "You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Sara."

She took his hand, held it against her heart as she fought back tears, not knowing what to say.

He wrapped his arms around her slim body and began to talk, almost as if he were thinking aloud. "Sara, sometimes people resent my self-control—always have. But most people, especially those I work with, will come to me when they can't cope, or they are frightened or can't decide what to do, and when I talk to them in a calm voice, the panic is gone, they go away reassured, and do what needs to be done. It's not that I solve their problem or even calm the chaos; it's not that I don't care—it's just how I am." He hugged her tighter. "I am detached—I look at everything from a distance—I don't do a lot of pointless things, or have fits of rage, but I do care—especially for you." He smiled and cradled her head against his face. "I think of you all day, but I don't worry about you when I know you're okay. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

She nodded, her eyes wet.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, yielding, moist, and he took great pleasure in the feel and taste of her—so much so that he wanted to continue kissing her all night. At his thought, he drew back, a chuckle rising in his throat, and said, "I do love you."

Sara laughed, her voice husky and warm. "I do believe you mean it."

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Now leave a review--we want to know who's reading! _


	15. Chapter 15

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 15**

Two days later, as everyone worked crime scenes spread across Las Vegas, Grissom walked into his office and found David Hodges bent over one of the miniature models. But finding bleach in each miniature did nothing to find the killer...

"What's in the bag?" Sara asked. She had rolled her chair around the package as she worked on application and admission forms for her mother. True to his word, Grissom was helping her. He had moved money around; he had talked to Kris and Sara had talked to her mother. Forms had been signed, copied, faxed, and mailed.

Grissom lifted the paper bag onto his desk. He grinned. "This is my new project." He pulled several pieces of stiff foam board from the sack. "I'm building a miniature of my office!" He shuffled papers around his desk finding a drawing. "If I'm ever going to find this guy, I've got to figure out—something—not sure what!"

Sara watched in amazement as he placed several other items on the desk. She studied his diagram. "You've got a lot of stuff in that office, babe."

"I do. There are people who will make anything you want in miniature—Ernie Dell had an internet business making this stuff—there're hundreds of people who do this. Maybe I'll find someone as good as he was—maybe I'll find someone who made some of the stuff we have." He pulled several small packages from the bag. "And maybe I'll find this killer before he kills again." He frowned, "that's a lot of maybes."

Sara looked over his shoulder, "Just as long as all you are doing is building your office—and not putting me under the desk."

He chuckled. "That's an idea—maybe I need a sofa for that!"

She laughed. "Just don't put me in a chicken house!" And giving him a brief hug she headed to the kitchen.

Later that night when Grissom handed out assignments, he kept the most interesting one for himself—and Sara.

"What makes you think I want to go to a brothel?" Sara teasingly asked as they drove along a dark highway. "How many of these places are stuck out here? Who comes out here?"

Grissom's mellow laugh was relaxed, even peaceful. Miles back he had taken her hand and pulled her closer, or as close as the two could get across the center console. "You need to see one of these places—besides, you, me, long drive in the night." The vehicle slowed. He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "I like taking my girl on a moonlight drive."

She ended up working outside with Nick; Greg got to process the girls which caused all of them to giggle as he recounted his experience with DNA swabs when they went to eat. They were the only non-truckers at the café and Sara realized that most customers of the Sugar Cane Ranch came from the interstate highway.

When they returned to the crime scene, Sara learned something new about Grissom. It put a smile on her face, even caused her to quote poetry to the old guy in the trailer. And it put an idea in her mind which worked into a plan before she left The Sugar Cane Ranch. Her first stop was one of those mall stores which specialized in what she wanted.

As she walked around all the tables and checked the displays, she found making a decision difficult—too much, too many colors, and too many styles. She finally settled on a simple cream color.

Her next stop was for food—she bought what he liked, went home and started preparations. She showered, put on her new items of clothing and checked herself in the mirror. He would say she had "sexed up"—but he really meant he could not wait to get her to the bed. She smiled. The past week had been so calm and peaceful. Even work had not interfered with their time at home. She finished food preparations and placed everything in the refrigerator. As soon as he walked in the door, hunger for food would disappear. She hummed an old song as she selected music to play—one of the tragic operas he loved. She heard the garage door slide open; Hank jumped from his bed and ran to the door. She leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled.

Grissom opened the door and walked in; Happy Morales was gone from his thoughts, but the absence of any findings on the miniature killer kept his mind racing in tight circles as he drove home. But upon entering his house, those thoughts dissolved as quickly as fog on a hot day. Hank met him at the door but as his hand went to the dog, his eyes focused on Sara. She was stunning. She wore a short shirt, simple on her slender figure, the color flattered her smooth tan skin, her dark hair framed her face; he stumbled as he took a step. The shirt was not buttoned and he saw what she wore underneath—he stopped, grinned—sexy. He felt a sudden urge, not for food, or to play with Hank, or to work on that damn miniature of his office. The look that passed between them was like a signal; he came across the room and kissed her.

It was a long, lascivious kiss. His hands slipped under the silky shirt and around Sara's body. His fingers touched the lacy bra, the texture contrasting with her soft skin.

"Sara." He breathed her name at the same time he took in her scent. He tucked his head against her neck, slid his hands to her butt, and lifted. Long legs wrapped around his body and his face slipped along smooth skin until his mouth found the swell of her breast. He kissed her along the edge of bra, tasting her skin as he walked to their bedroom. He managed to push the door closed with his foot.

Hank stood at the closed door with a perplexed look on his face before turning to curl up in his bed.

Sara unlocked her legs and stood as she began to undress Grissom. He stared at her, a playful smile on his face, as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off, released his belt and unhooked his pants. He did the rest as he toed off shoes, left his clothes in a heap, and placed hands on her waist. She ran fingers around his boxers, slowing her movements as she slid fingers down the front.

Grissom's face changed; his composure vanished as he gazed at her, wide-eyed with desire. His hands grasped her open shirt and he pulled her to him, making a sound between a groan and a sigh before they tumbled into the bed.

"Wait!" Sara's laughing command caught Grissom off guard as his fingers were on her bra. "In front—hook!" She pushed him onto his back before rising to her knees and carefully, snugly placed one knee against his thigh and the other one against his groin, straddling his leg.

A growl turned to a low moan as she leaned away from him. The white fabric appeared to glow against her skin as her hands moved over her belly and flattened on each hip. She shook her hair back and arched her back, letting her head fall backwards as she stretched her body. Just as quickly, she straightened, looked at him with a broad smile, placed fingers on the center of her bra and unhooked it. A shrug of her shoulders and it was off. She bent her knees and leaned over his belly, her dark hair against his skin made him shiver.

"Oh, God, Sara—I can't take this," he whispered as he felt her kisses begin below his navel. She giggled as she took the band of his boxers between her teeth and tugged slightly.

Using her hands and her teeth, she removed the boxers. When he tried to sit up, she put one hand firmly on his chest and said, "Stay there. I want you to remember the night you took me to a brothel—I might have picked up a few tips!"

At her comment, he laughed, sounding very pleased. "Is that what's going on?"

Her laugh was one he recognized, but few people had ever heard Sara Sidle's extremely sexy laugh. She said, "Actually, it's because you said I make you happy." She bent over him again and this time, her tongue and lips met his very hard erection; her warm hand held and massaged the orbs at its base.

"Sara!" He reacted, moving involuntarily to her attentions.

She had to grin at his reaction to the effect she was having on him. She placed her tongue gently against his shaft and slowly moved upward, following with a lightly placed finger. She could feel the contractions of his muscles against her palm.

"Enough, woman!" The sound of his voice was a firm request and his hands tightly grabbed her and pulled her toward his face. He rolled both to their sides so they could face each other. "All of this because I'm happy when I'm with you?" He asked. "I should say that more often."

They kissed, passionately, searching deeply, a longing erotic yearning that led to what was ultimately desired. At some point, Grissom realized Sara still wore her new panties. After removing them, he held them between his hands, keeping Sara within his arms.

"I like these—sexy—I don't remember seeing these at the ranch!" He teased.

She laughed, "I don't think they wore panties," she said.

"You need more of these." He flipped them across the bed, "but not now." His hand went back to the warm, wet spot between her legs.

Sara squirmed and shifted. "Not that way," she whispered. "I want you."

He had been aroused for so long he thought he would explode, but by quickly maneuvering, entering her body slowly, he managed to hold on. He took several deep breaths before placing lips to hers, reaching around her backside and tightly holding her butt as he began a slow measured pace.

Sara's arms had encircled his neck and back in a grip of passion, quickly matching the rhythm as he quickly progressed to fast thrusts. He felt her quiver, a full body shake from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, and within seconds he fulfilled the desire that had flamed and burned with an intensity that consumed his thoughts.

"Dear God," he said, "you have answered my prayers!"

Sara's quiet giggle brought him back to a hazy state of awareness.

"Don't laugh at my thankful prayer," he admonished her as he hugged her even closer. "I needed you in that shirt—those lacy undies—more than you know."

Sara brought her hand to his face. Her fingers traced around each eye, along his nose, from the corner of his mouth, to his chin. "I love you, Gil Grissom, more than you can possibly know."

He cradled her head against his neck, "I do, Sara, I really do."

_A/N: **Intermission! **We are going on spring break--a vacation, a holiday--with family. So next chapter in 12-13 days--we still have Lady Heather, Natalie and Hannah to deal with before this story is finished. Leave a review, and keep the faith, we will be back!_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: We are back to continue! Leave a review--give us encouragement, a slap on the head, whatever it is you do best--but let us know you are reading! _

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 16**

The rest of their week passed slowly, even routinely if one could put that label on their work. As they prepared dinner for the one night they were off schedule, Grissom's phone rang with a request from Jim Brass. He grimaced as he listened and wrapped an arm around Sara. She knew he was leaving before he ended the conversation.

"Sorry," he said.

"I'll see you later," she softly murmured, already deciding how she would save their dinner.

Later turned into much later—after Chyna DeVere had been found and Sara walked up to Nick sliding around in a pig pen and a dozen other crazy twists occurred in a missing person's case turned armed stand off. No one had time to catch a breath until she and Grissom got home and he put in an old monster movie.

They had laughed at the plot as the great lizard ate his way across the city, destroying everything in his path. Sara finished her yogurt; the sight of all those miniature buildings caused Grissom to remember his own project. She clicked the remote having no desire to see the poor dragon get killed by the oxygen destroyer.

Grissom's Shakespeare book lay where he had placed it earlier after she had snickered at his ability to read Shakespeare and watch a bad monster movie at the same time. He had answered by closing the thick book, rolling to her and using her lap as a pillow, declaring he would no longer multi-task while watching a movie with her. Of course, he proceeded to predict every upcoming appearance of the monster until she placed her hand over his mouth which he kissed and nibbled causing her giggles to bring Hank between them.

This was the happiest time in her life, she thought. This was home—a safe cocoon the two of them had made in the midst of all that went on in their lives. As she placed the remote on Grissom's book, she noticed the envelope, her name written across the front. She pulled the letter out and began to read: _Our parting was awkward. I don't know why I find it so difficult…_She glanced into their shared office where Grissom was bent over his desk. For a few minutes she fingered the edge of the page. He rarely expressed a goodbye; not in those words. He would tell her to be safe or "see you later", but rarely goodbye. She folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and left the bed.

Standing in the doorway, she watched as he carefully glued walls of the model office together, holding each piece until it was in place.

"This is precise work," he said, never looking up.

Sara's hand slipped around his shoulders. She handed him the letter.

As soon as he saw the envelope, he chuckled, turning in his chair, smoothly pulling her into his lap.

"I meant to mail this," he quietly said. He turned the envelope over. "I wrote the wrong address—work—I—I didn't want you to read it at work."

Sara's fingers combed gently through his hair. "Read it to me." She settled in the chair with him in a configuration that was comfortable and familiar.

Instead of reading the letter, he lay it on his desk and, from memory, quoted the sonnet: "Betwist mine eye and heat a league is took, and each doth good turns now into the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, or heart in love…"

When he finished, he kissed her shoulder. "I missed you—every day." He kissed her neck. "I missed your warm hands." He kissed below her ear. "I missed your cooking." He kissed her several times along the line of her jaw. "I missed you every night." As she leaned against him, their lips met in a kiss sweetened by four hundred year old poetry.

His lips and teeth tickled against her skin; she giggled.

"I should have mailed this," he said as he folded the letter into the envelope and tossed it toward the trash can.

"No!" Sara exclaimed. "I'm keeping it." She fished it from the basket and held it against her chest. "I don't get many sonnets—or letters from you."

He nuzzled her neck. "I don't do enough for you, Sara." He kissed her prolonging contact as hands explored with loving touches and mouths found willing, receptive contact.

A phone rang. Startled, Sara sat upright. It was the tone she had set for calls from her mother. Weekly, Sara talked to Kris, finding it easier to talk to her than to talk with her mother. Yet when mother and daughter talked, there seemed to be an easier, relaxed conversation than Sara could ever remember. Her mother talked of enjoying retirement, working with flowers, taking long walks with the lady who came every day, and about the other women in the house. And each week, she asked when Sara was coming to visit.

"There's no emergency" were the first words Sara heard. Relief showed in her face as she moved away from Grissom's chair. The conversation was mostly one or two word responses from Sara as Kris did most of the talking. Sara returned to the bed, clicked the phone off, and stared into space for several minutes.

"What's going on?" Grissom had returned to the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed.

Sara held the phone in her hand, obviously perplexed or confused.

Grissom asked, "Anything wrong with your mom?"

She shook her head, then said, "This is weird—the meds seem to be working and Kris says Mom is writing a letter to me. But that's not what the call was about."

He sat on the bed, stretching out an arm, motioning for her to move. Once she was next to him, he said nothing.

"They—the women at the house—decided to let Mom have a room of her own since she was home all day. When they moved her things, Kris found boxes under the bed—shoe boxes—stuffed with envelopes going back nearly fifteen years. It doesn't look like any have been opened. When she asked Mom about all of them, all she got was a shrug and Mom said they were about my dad."

"Who were they from?"

"A law firm—I have the number. Kris opened one of the recent ones—she says it looks like some kind of statement of an account."

He kissed her. "Call the number—get an appointment. We'll go—spend the day with your mother and see what this is about."

Sara snuggled against him. "Probably a bill—compounded quarterly for fifteen years." Her hands slid underneath his tee shirt, pushing the fabric upward as she kissed his chest. She bent to him, her lips demanding to be kissed.

Slowly, he closed his hand around her neck and lightly traced fingers to the straps of her shirt, caressing it off her body. The light outside their room changed, the dog sighed and stretched across the floor—the lovers knew nothing of it. Drawn together, entangled in each other, they were lost.

Grissom managed, skillfully, to lift her top all the while he was kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulder, her chest, and then returned to her neck. Shivers went through her body when he kissed her that way. His fingers slid over her nipples and his kisses continued until she realized she was naked except for her panties. His bare chest met hers and, even though he still wore his pants, she was acutely aware of his swollen groin. He started moving on top of her; his hand between her legs.

Her hands found the waistband of his pants and she pushed, wanting to feel the intimate contact of his skin. He moved above her, his weight supported by his arms, smiling. At this moment she knew he loved her, and she parted her lips expecting to feel his mouth on hers. Instead he kissed her neck in a way that made her dizzy before moving to her right breast, down the midline of her abdomen, and back up to her left breast, nuzzling with his mouth in a way that became a sensuous massage by his tongue and lips.

He placed a finger under the elastic of her panties and slowly ran it across her lower belly while giving a gentle pull, retraced the path as the panties were lowered, and, very gently, the tip of his finger touched, caressed the beginning of her soft cleft. It was not a shiver, but a tremor that ran through her body—a muscle in her lower abdomen convulsed, and inside her, she felt wet.

By the time her panties were to her knees and then completely off, he was kissing her lower belly and was swirling his index finger and thumb around the sensitive nub of her sex. She said his name twice before he looked up at her with a smile meant only for her eyes. She tilted her chin giving some secret signal that he understood. The look of ecstasy on his face was what she wanted—at this moment, she was all life could mean for him—he belonged only to her, down to the tiniest molecule in his body.

He moved up, covering her body as she wrapped legs around his and arms around his back. Somehow, as a key fits smoothly into its lock, they were together. She heard her own gasp at the same instant a low moan came from him as he eased into her. His pace started to quicken as her own muscles tensed and clenched. Her voice made a sound of immense satisfaction as she lost the ability to think rationally and shortly, before she could catch her breath, a low passionate rumble erupted from Grissom as he collapsed, half on his side and half on top of her.

Afterwards, before either could speak words, he held her in his arms, and, long after, as he continued to hold her, he told her how she made him happy. In this intimate, very private manner, Sara knew without doubt that Grissom loved her. When he finally dozed, she sent a silent thank you to the older woman who had been his first lover. Sara ran fingertips through his curls and smiled.

Once, in a very secret conversation, they had shared their first experience with the opposite sex. He had laughed as he related how an older woman—later he realized this older woman was only five years his senior—had taken an interest in him. Most girls thought he was too shy or timid, and he usually was quiet in their presence, but this woman, a lab assistant, met him every day as he worked on his assignments, and finally suggested sharing a meal. Like the typical science nerd he was, he showed up with sandwiches in a sack; she showed up with condoms and a sheet. Slowly, he let himself be enticed by her scent and warmth as she caressed and pushed herself closer and closer. Of course, he knew what was happening, and quietly, very patiently, she played, she taught, she let him seek and find, until he was burning with greed for her. Later, she held him in her arms, explaining that women enjoyed the intimate aftermath of sex almost as much as the actual act. He was a quick learner, a novice, but he never forgot her lesson.

Sara kissed his forehead, getting a sleepy smile, a quick nibble of his lips against her chest. She closed her eyes but her worries returned—her mother, the unopened letters, the looming expensive care her mother would need. Her hands cradled Grissom's head as she tried to push the thoughts from her head and, finally, she slept.

A/N: _Next chapter up soon--Lady Heather shows up--so review, please! Thanks!_


	17. Chapter 17

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 17**

Grissom kept his word and reserved two seats on a flight to San Francisco; Sara made an appointment with the law firm speaking to a young attorney who said he would research her mother's account before they arrived. Four days later, they picked Sara's mother up for a planned breakfast before a mid-morning meeting and Sara saw another reason she loved Gil Grissom.

Inside this home of older women, he shook hands, smiled, was exceedingly well-mannered as the awkwardness of their arrival soon melted with his polite questions. Sara thought her mother's appearance had improved; Grissom remembered Laura Sidle as slim and quiet and today she was almost skeletal with a certain wide-eyed quality that marked her in a subtle way. Grissom realized the older woman knew her mind was leaving her. Gently, he placed a hand at her elbow, asking if she was ready to spend a few hours in the city.

Laura smiled and he caught his breath at the near resemblance between mother and daughter. Sara followed them carrying a bundle of letters from the law firm in her hand. She watched as her mother smiled again at some quiet comment from Grissom.

Kris whispered, "She's doing real well—but she doesn't like lawyers. I'm sure she has her reasons."

They drove to a small café with a view of the bay and sat outside on its planked deck and ordered pancakes. As they ate, Laura seemed to remember something she wanted to say, but closed her mouth before a word escaped. Sara and Grissom had stopped their forks and looked at her.

Grissom spoke first, "It's nice out here, isn't it?" He smiled.

Laura remembered, saying "We came here when you were little—you ate blueberries on your pancakes. We rode the ferry."

At first, Sara did not know what to say. For the first time in years her mother had mentioned an event in her childhood. Sara shook her head. "I don't remember."

Her mother smiled. "You were just a little thing—all wide-eyed with a smile across your face." Her hand went to her chest and spread out. "You had on a white jumper." She forked a bite of pancakes, chewed for almost a minute as her eyes wandered to the water, and came back to Sara. "I always wanted a baby girl." She smiled and picked up her coffee cup.

"Mom," Sara knew she had to ask a question, "before me—before I was born—did you take…" Sara realized she had no way to ask about other pregnancies. She changed her question. "How long did you want a baby girl before you had me, Mom?"

Grissom watched, puzzled, as Sara's mother appeared to relax; she glanced at him and he smiled as he continued eating.

"Five times—before I got you! And you were so scrawny—all long legs and arms," she laughed. Her hands went to her head. "Your hair was dark and curly—one of the nurses said you looked like a little Mexican!" The laughter animated her face for a few minutes. Her hand came down and rested near Sara's.

Grissom had missed some essential thread of the conversation yet he had heard every word. He looked at Sara and noticed she moved her hand to cover her mother's. Perplexed, he wondered if Laura Sidle had five children—boys—before Sara was born—no, he thought; he knew there had been only one brother. Clarification came in an instant as he realized Laura had meant pregnancies—five before Sara was born.

"I'm sorry I wasn't pretty—a plump little cherub." Sara said, but she laughed as she said it.

Her mother laughed—an echo of her daughter. "You were the most beautiful baby in the world, Sara." Sadness came into her eyes. "There were pictures of you—and your brother—at one time, but—but all that was gone." Laura's eyes moved back to the view of the water and she pulled her hand away from Sara's.

Both women returned to eating in silence for several minutes before Laura looked up and smiled at Sara. "Do you still love the beach? You did as a baby—do you remember?"

Sara held her knife and fork above her plate. "I love the water—one thing I miss in Vegas is the sound of the ocean." She closed her eyes. "I remember wearing a two piece swim suit and eating crackers—I dropped one in the sand and you laughed when I ate it."

"We ate crackers because you wouldn't eat bread!" Laura said with a laugh. "You wanted to feed bread to the birds." The women returned to their breakfast, both smiling as they ate.

Grissom waved for more coffee. "Should we walk to the offices or I can drive you to the building and return later?"

Sara's eyes met his and he knew his question had not been what she wanted to hear.

"They don't like me—I don't like them." Laura quietly said as she raked her fork around the syrup on her plate. She looked up at Grissom. "You go with Sara—I'll wait here."

Sara pushed her chair back and stood. "No, Mom, we are all going to this meeting. I don't like lawyers either." She gathered her jacket, her bag with the unopened envelopes, and held her hand out to her mother. She smiled. "Come on, Mom. The two of us should be able to handle a few ambulance chasers." She leaned to her mom and whispered, "And we have Grissom—he hates them too!"

If Grissom had not been behind the two women, both would have bolted at the door to the very enormous, very old building where a doorman opened the door and immediately asked if they had an appointment. Sara managed to say a name and they were ushered from entrance to a bank of elevators where another man pressed buttons but left them alone to rise to the upper floors.

"Just a little intimidating," Sara whispered.

Her mother's hands twisted together in a nervous gesture. Grissom's hand went to Laura's shoulder and she jerked at his touch.

"It'll be okay, Laura," he said as she took a breath and attempted a smile.

"I've never liked lawyers."

Sara had turned to her mother. "Have you ever been here, Mom?"

Her mom shook her head. "They came to see me once—three old men and a young one—years ago."

The elevator doors opened with a quiet wisp of air and the three stepped into a small lobby where they were greeted by a woman behind a large desk. Sara noticed there was no sign announcing names and she wondered what happened when more than three people arrived at once.

Grissom stepped forward and gave their names. The woman smiled and nodded toward the three chairs but before any of them could take a seat, a young man appeared. He held the heavy door open as he invited them to follow him.

When they entered a small conference room and three men rose to meet them, Grissom knew this was no longer a simple inquiry into a long-held account. He realized they should have opened the letters; he should have looked at the envelopes instead of letting Sara stuff them inside the bag she carried. The young man held chairs for the two women. Laura Sidle never looked up as she sat down, her hands nervously working to smooth a crease in her pants.

Sara's eyes held Grissom's for several seconds as she seemed to realize the situation was no longer what they had expected. The oldest of the three men said something and held his hand out to Sara. Automatically, she took it, and then the next man did the same, followed by the third. Her mother never looked up. Sara tried to focus—the unexpected has thrown her off—her mother had said it was an old account but none of this fit with what she had assumed.

With a few words of introduction and explanation—Sara had made the appointment with the young man, but her inquiry had been passed to the other attorneys—the three older men who were familiar with the account. As their explanation continued, Sara's mouth opened, she felt Grissom's fingers enclose her hand. Once she glanced at her mother who appeared never to have moved since sitting down. Sara wondered if she had fallen asleep but saw her fingers moving; she reached over and placed her hand on her mother's knee.

There was a long tedious monologue filled with legal terms by one of the lawyers as he explained the contents of the folder in front of him—he kept his eyes on Sara as he spoke. He said names of people Sara had never heard of and once, when he mentioned her father, her hand involuntarily clenched her mother's knee. Grissom must have noticed because his hand closed around her fingers at the same time.

Sara heard "compensation for the firm" and "ensuring trust property is preserved and productive" and "entirety of the trust property at age thirty" but the words whirled in her head until she could make no sense out of all these words. When one of the men opened a folder and slid it across the table, all she saw were wavy numbers. She glanced at the men who were all smiling in a very smug, self-satisfied way and she tried to reach for the page with numbers but can't seem to move her hand.

She tried to turn toward Grissom but the light seemed to be growing dim until it completely diminished in the room with floor to ceiling windows and for the first time in her life, Sara Sidle fainted and she does not even feel the thud her head makes as she hits the table, the impact partly broken as Grissom's quick action manages to catch her shoulder before her face crashes into the table's surface. She doesn't see the four lawyers scramble out of their expensive chairs, calling names as they do so.

She doesn't hear her mother say, "I've never liked lawyers."

_A/N: Moving along--reviews? Surprised?_


	18. Chapter 18

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 18**

Sara heard voices floating around and over her head and felt a hand—she knew it was Grissom's—on the back of her neck before the darkness became light gray and blue eyes came into focus. Grissom leaned close and smoothed a hand over her head. She saw him smile.

He said, "You fainted," and reached for something over her head where a hand passed a folded cloth. He pressed the cool fabric against her neck.

She looked around the room, confused, until she realized she was in the same conference room, minus the four lawyers, and she was lying on a long bench along one wall. Her mother's hand stroked her ankle, a worried look on her face. There were at least two others in the room, talking quietly, asking questions. She pushed against her elbows and sat up. A cup appeared at her lips.

"What happened?" She asked.

Her mother made a quiet laugh causing everyone to turn and look at her. "You got rid of the lawyers in a hurry," she said with a laugh.

The two other women in the room never made a sound but Sara noticed they both turned away after her mother's remark and as they turned back to them, the amused look in their eyes was apparent. It took several more minutes to right herself, smooth her hair, and insist she was more embarrassed than anything else. Grissom took charge and got the women out of the room, asking for a few more minutes before having the men return.

"I want to see that page with the numbers," Sara said. Laura passed the folder to Sara. "Mom, did you know about this?"

"They came to see me once—all their legal talk—but they couldn't—wouldn't get you back. Said they weren't that kind of lawyer and you were already out of foster care and in college. I wanted us to—to be together again—but they wouldn't help." Laura's hands were twisted together. Her lips formed an odd smile, and she turned and gazed out the high windows.

Immediately, Grissom took the older woman's hands in his. "Laura, look at me," he said. "Its okay—Sara's here now."

Sara scooted across the bench still holding the folder. "Mom, this is a lot of money—a lot of money." She flipped pages to find the oldest date—six years after her father had died. She didn't understand how all this money had accumulated with her name at the top of the page. She looked at Grissom. "I don't understand—we never had money."

Her mother's finger tapped the pages Sara was holding. "He was an uncle of your father's. Had some kind of lumber business—never married. Once, we asked him for a loan, just a little money to get by, but he wouldn't do it." Laura sighed. "It was before you were born and we never spoke about him or saw him again."

Sara studied the columns of figures, finally saying, "Gil, get one of those lawyers back in here—I'm fine and I want some answers."

Grissom grinned. He had seen that look on her face before and these old guys were going to get the Sidle interrogation. When he returned with the oldest attorney, Sara was pacing, holding the slim file in her hands, and her mother had leaned back against the wall and was following her daughter's movements with a look of amazement.

The lawyer instantly knew a change had occurred during his absence. The younger woman no longer appeared confused and as he watched her stride around the table, he knew she would be asking questions. Even the older woman had changed in his absence; she sat on the bench, hands in her lap, with a different sort of smile on her face.

Clarification took much longer than anticipated but the law firm was more than happy to provide lunch as the lawyer traced back the trust account, explained the fees to trustees, and offered profuse apologies for "sitting on the account" without attempting to locate the sole beneficiary of the trust, noting regular notices had been sent to Laura Sidle. The old man knew little about Sara's uncle other than as a single man with a small fortune he had requested specific terms for a trust fund. From his folder, he pulled out a chart of fund growth over the years, taking time to explain tax laws and methods of receiving vested funds versus principle.

Grissom had leaned back in his chair when Sara moved to sit beside the attorney. If anyone could understand numbers, he knew Sara could. She could perform addition and multiplication math in her head faster than most people using a calculator; and the old lawyer realized this. Once, he and Laura left the room, walking around the building and looking at San Francisco's skyline, returned and found Sara asking questions.

At some point, Grissom recognized a simmering intensity in Sara's eyes; she was angry, and he was the only one who comprehended the immense control she managed as the attorney explained the unknown and astonishing financial situation. Sara would have a stable monetary base for the first time in her life—it was enough to pay for her mother's care, enough for Sara to buy things she wanted, enough for her to travel, enough to change her in a hundred ways.

By late afternoon, they had returned Laura to her home after a stop at a local market where Sara filled the rental car with fruits, breads, pastries, three kinds of ice cream, and an assortment of exotic foods she thought the women would enjoy. As the women selected foods, their laughter reminded Grissom of kids in a candy store. He also believed a page had turned in their relationship—there was easiness between them that had not existed that morning. At the house, Sara spoke to Kris in private, simply saying her mother's financial situation had changed; whatever she needed, or wanted, could be paid for, and she gave her the business card of the law firm.

As they drove to the airport, Sara asked, "Can you find a place to pull over?"

"You okay?" Grissom asked.

She nodded as he took the next exit. "I need to get out of the car—a minute."

He pulled far onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. Sara got out of the car and stood for a minute, hands on her hips. Grissom cut the engine and joined her. As he came around the car, she turned and placed elbows on the top of the car, fists hitting the roof. Over the years, he had seen anger and fury blaze across Sara's face, but today, there was something new, different. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin; her shoulders shook. Her chest heaved, and before he could reach her, a sound erupted from her lungs that sounded as frightening as the wail of a wounded animal. When it ended seconds later, her hands covered her face as she cried and shuddered. By then he had reached her, wrapping arms around her, holding her as one does a terrified child. She cried, hard-racking sobs that trembled through her body. And he wasn't sure why.

The afternoon sun heated his neck and back before she quieted and he managed to get her back into the car. They made their flight with only minutes to spare and then sat on the tarmac for almost an hour before taking off. Neither mentioned the incident on the highway, nor did they speak of the day's events as they sat next to each other and heard the chatter of gamblers headed to casinos. Yet they slept, waking when the landing gear touched the runway in Las Vegas…

"Why not stay home tonight? I'll call if things get backed up."

Sara shook her head. "I'm fine—really. It all has to sink in. Mostly, I'm relieved that my mom can be taken care of now." Her voice sounded normal but Grissom recognized a tremor, a fluctuation indicating nervousness or tenseness.

"What if I took you off schedule?"

Again, Sara shook her head. "No—no, I need to work."

He paired her with Nick on a burglary of a jewelry store—an easy job but it was a slow night. And Nick was always good to and for Sara. When they returned to the lab, he heard laughter as they checked in evidence; Nick ability to tease a laugh from Sara always caused a little jealousy in Grissom. He followed their voices to the break room where he announced he was going home early.

"Do you think Grissom might have a girlfriend?" Nick asked Sara as he opened a bag of chips to share.

Sara never blinked. "What makes you think that?"

Nick's head moved in the direction of the door. "Leaving early. He's dressing better—I think he has a girlfriend!"

Sara's eyes narrowed as she said, "Maybe so—or maybe he has a project he's working on."

"Yeah, he's visiting those model maker shops—we went in to one and he was asking a dozen questions—some of them had nothing to do with those in his office." Nick leaned back and placed his feet on the table.

"Nick, do you have a girlfriend?"

"Naw," he drawled. "I'm still looking."

Sara thumped his ankle. "Well, when you get one, get yourself some new boots before propping them on her table!"

She took her time going home. Work had been good, gotten her mind away from the events in San Francisco. She dialed Grissom's number and asked about Hank.

"Get home, dear. Your men wait—with breakfast."

When Sara walked in the door, the smell of baked muffins and citrus fruit wafted up her nose and before she could lock the door, Grissom's arms were around her, Hank was twisting around their legs, and she knew she was home. Another scent filled her nose as she leaned against Grissom's blue shirt—one that made her forget food and work and the previous day.

She mumbled, "Just take me to bed." She felt the rumble of his chest under her hand.

"No way—eat first. Then we'll sleep."

She chuckled. "I didn't mean to sleep."

He did make her eat. The cinnamon muffins were hot, the grapefruit was sectioned; he poured tea and added a heaping spoon of sugar to her cup. "Eat—gives us strength," he instructed.

He left her to shower alone as he took Hank out for a fast pee break. The sunlight was almost blinding as he hurried the dog along the walking path and back to their house. And just as Sara had smelled his scent, he immediately knew she was out of the shower when he entered the house. The fragrance of Sara Sidle was never out of his brain and the freshness of her body out of the shower was enough to drive him to a need, a desire, he could never quite understand. Since the day before in San Francisco, when they had realized there was a substantial trust fund in her name, he had worried about her sudden financial independence. There had been moments during the past hours when he tried to picture his life without her should she decide to leave him—he quieted his thoughts, unable to imagine life without her.

He closed the bedroom door and Sara turned in his direction. In the darkened room, she shimmered in a short silky white shirt, her hair pulled back, and she smiled.

Desire so powerful that it threatened to consume him thundered through his veins. He was already hard, aroused, desperate for her and it took all the control he possessed not to seize her in a moment of passion. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her before she could speak a word. Her arms went around him and her mouth opened, allowing him inside. His palms slid down her spine and his fingers closed over her hips as he pulled her snugly against his groin. A smile played on her lips as they continued to kiss.

_A/N: Okay--time to review, readers! Next chapter will be held hostage until we hear from all of you who are reading and never respond! **You know who you are!** When we see a certain number of reviews, we'll post the next chapter--in an hour, a day, a week--so REVIEW! You can do it--we'll even give you a hint on what to write "Keep going" or "Like it"--you don't have to write an essay! So hit the review button--you will really enjoy the Heather chapter, promise! _


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thanks so much for reviews, comments, emails! And to those who didn't--well, continue to read, hope you are enjoying our story! _

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 19**

Grissom kissed her neck, caught her delicate ear lobe between his teeth and felt a shiver as a response. His hand came to her hair and he pulled free the loop holding her ponytail; her hair tumbled over his hands. He made a fist in the sweet smelling curls and used his hold as an anchor for her head as he continued to kiss her.

Sara pushed her hands beneath his shirt and pressed her palms on his back. The heat of her fingers was so intense that all he could do was make a sound of raw need. He looked into her eyes to find gleaming pools of passion. Both were half-drunk with the knowledge of what was to come as they tumbled onto the bed, her hands working furiously to pull his shirt over his head as his worked to push hers off her shoulders.

It took several minutes and a parting of bodies, but his shoes and pants were off, and his fully aroused body pressed against hers. When she reached to encircle him with her warm fingers, it was all he could do to remain still, keep himself from moving to quickly. Slowly, he breathed and tried to savor the hot pleasure of being touched so intimately by Sara. But after a moment or two, he stopped her hands, a chuckle escaping from his throat.

He pushed her gently onto her back and slid hands along her bare abdomen, her thighs, brought his thumbs along the edge of her panties, and tenderly caressed her skin from hipbone to the triangle of dark hair that grew between her legs. He bent to her belly and took the band of her panties between his teeth. With tongue, lips, and teeth, he teased her flesh causing a ripple of laughter as her muscles flexed in response. She brushed fingers through his hair and across the back of his neck. After a moment, he lifted her butt and stripped the soft fabric to her knees, her ankles and tossed her panties across the room. He gently separated her legs and touched his tongue to the inside of one thigh; her fingers tightened in his hair.

"Gil."

He settled himself between her legs and inhaled the feminine scent—one of the sea, a hint of salt covered with a light bloom of citrus—he could live the rest of his life on that fragrance, he thought. He found the small, sensitive bud already engorged and began to gently massage it with his thumb and forefinger.

Within seconds, he felt Sara's body tense before other sensations took over; her breath came quickly, her hips shifted, lifting against him. When he eased a finger into her, she clenched around him just as her fingers clenched his hair. He probed gently, kissing her, sliding another finger into her.

"Gil," her voice was muffled, choked with emotion. He stretched one arm up her abdomen and found her hand. He kissed, used his tongue to touch her in the most intimate, sensitive place on her body; he blew warm puffs of air against her glistening folds as instinct took over her body.

Sara's hips twisted and lifted; he sensed her impending climax before she did with the movement of her muscles against his fingers. She was in the grip of a force that removed all other thoughts from her brain. In a moment, he moved, propelling himself forward until he covered her body. His hand guided his erection to her damp, throbbing entrance and he pushed deep inside her. She gasped, a stifled cry, as waves of pleasure rippled and swelled and tumbled from the bottom of her feet to her brain. His desire was suddenly overwhelming all other functions in his body—he caught her head between his hands and clamped his mouth over hers, desperate to claim her.

The immeasurable feeling of being surrounded by Sara was almost more than he could take; his senses were in overdrive as he plunged into her, his muscles quivering. His eyes closed as waves of passion rocked through his body and in seconds, he collapsed, spent, sprawling across her chest, an arm snugly wrapped underneath her shoulders. He cradled her face with his hand, his thumb traced her lips.

"You are the woman I love, Sara."

Her dark eyes sparkled with emotion. "Do you mean it?" She teased, "Even after I fainted in the old lawyer's office?"

"Yes," it was his turn to tease. "Even after you've become a trust fund kid."

Her eyes clouded. "Don't say that, Gil. I can't even think about all of that without getting angry."

He carefully shifted their bodies, maintaining contact as he propped on knee and elbow. He wiggled his hips and grinned. "Don't think about it." He tipped her chin with one hand and kissed her. "You can tell me you love me."

A look of undisguised joy flashed across her face as she smiled. She moved her hands around his neck. "I am so desperately in love with you that my body aches when I can't touch you—talk to you—be with you." She touched fingertips to his jaw. Her voice was low and husky, warmed by happiness.

"You know," he said, "we could go public—announce to everyone about us. I can move to swing."

"No! No—I don't want that, Gil. This is private—we are private. If we tell everyone then we become subject to gossip and rumor and who is doing what!" Her fingers stroked his face. "I love working with you and sitting across the table from you and watching you." Unexpectedly, she giggled. "Nick thinks you might have a girlfriend."

Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"You left early—you're dressing better."

He nuzzled her neck, pumping his hips against hers, feeling a familiar warmth growing in his groin. "I do have a girlfriend," he whispered. "And sometimes, I can't get enough of her. Sometimes, I get this very peculiar swelling when she's around."

The giggle he heard was one of satisfaction and pleasure. She lifted her knee to his thigh, opening herself for him. Her hand found his growing penis and those delicate, long fingers began a sweet massage as she rolled on top of him, kissing him as he grabbed her butt with his hands.

A long time later, Sara woke in a tangle of arms and legs, sheets and pillows, with a warm male body lying beside her, their bodies seemed to be stuck together in odd places. She grinned as she remembered some of the antics they had done before going to sleep. A tangle of curly hair was resting in the curve of her chin and neck. Unconsciously, her fingers came to Grissom's hair and she swirled a lock of hair around her finger. To move would wake him—this sleeping man she loves more than she had ever loved anyone. Her smile grew wider as she worked another curl around a second finger.

Suddenly, she thought about the money, the trust fund, all those numbers added together in an account with her name. Grissom had told her not to think about it, but her new thought was not in anger. She would buy something for him—she smiled again—a trip, a vacation to the rainforest or Egypt, some place with lots of bugs. She played with several possibilities yet every one came back to their relationship; everyone would know if the two of them put in for two-weeks of vacation at the same time. She was so deep into her thoughts and a dozen others which spiraled around her brain that she jumped when she heard Grissom's voice.

"You're a million miles away, dear."

"We could take a trip, Gil."

He threw back the sheet, untangled legs and arms, and was flexing a stiff knee when she spoke. "We can—but," he stretched beside her, a smile twitched his mouth, "we will have to tell who my girlfriend is."

She made a grumpy sound. "Not yet—but we can afford one now."

Grissom sat up, rearranged the bedcovers, a frown formed across his forehead. "We should talk about this, Sara." He motioned for her to move to him and once his arms were tightly around her, he continued. "You've had a major change in circumstances—sort of won the lottery only better—and with attorneys." He kissed the back of her neck.

She leaned her head back and turned to face him. "Why didn't he help us, Gil?" She fought back sudden tears. "He had to know—he knew how to find my mom, he purposely excluded her from having access. It's in the instructions of the trust—my mom could never get to the money! All the years she worked—she never got over that night, and now—she knows, Gil, she knows her memory is going. She's always been so terrified of everything—my father beat her so often he made her scared of life! All that money could have made things better and now—now that its mine—I can't undo what's happened!" She tried not to cry but her chin trembled, tears spilled from her eyes as she talked.

Grissom touched his thumb to her cheek and wiped away tears. "Honey—Sara, don't cry over the things you can not go back and fix." His attempts at soothing her seemed to bring more tears. "You have the money to take care of your mother—you don't have to worry about that any more. There's enough money to take care of you! You could check out one of those life care communities—my mother enjoyed living in one and had her own apartment."

Sara shook her head. "A place like that would petrify my mom. I'll figure out something." She smiled. "At least I can spend the money on her now and she seemed okay, didn't she?"

"She did." Grissom chuckled. "When we were walking around the building, she could point out and name all the landmarks and tell me something I didn't know about a lot of places—she could be a tour guide!"

"Did she get confused?"

"No, we kept it simple—just walking around. She said that was the highest she had ever been over the city."

They sat together in silence for several minutes before he asked, "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah, thanks." Neither moved from their nested positions as his hand moved along her arm. "I'm naming you as co-owner and beneficiary," she said quietly.

"Sara—you…"

She cut him off by placing her fingers across his mouth. "I trust you." She had turned to face him and kissed him. "Now—go walk Hank and I'll fix food."

He grumbled but a glance at the clock made him wonder where the hours had gone and caused a grin as he pulled on his old pants and a tee shirt. If he hurried with Hank he could be back by the time Sara was out of the shower—or even shower with her.

She seemed to read his thoughts. "Take Hank for a long walk—not just to pee," she instructed as the dog bounced into the bedroom.

Work seemed to follow a predictable pattern for several days—either hours of mundane events or one big case that pulled everyone to the same scene. Grissom finished his office model in miniature and, as Sara watched, he placed the last tiny specimen jars on shelves with an almost microscopic drop of glue.

"What now?" She asked.

He smiled proudly. "I'm taking it to work—to join the others!"

Sara had followed Catherine on the call-out to the old western tourist town. She ambled onto the scene and her jaw dropped when Catherine mentioned the victim's name. "Lady Heather nearly got killed!" Catherine gushed as she made a hand motion across her neck. For the next hour, she heard from Catherine every fact and gossip tidbit about Heather and Grissom's interest in her with the additional opinions of all the possible women in Grissom's life.

As soon as Brass called saying Heather was awake and able to talk, Sara grabbed her case and headed to the hospital, leaving Catherine in mid-sentence. The quiet vulnerable woman in the bed caught Sara off-guard; not what she expected from Catherine's comments and from lab gossip. She was gentle, polite, even more so than usual as she took photographs and ask questions.

Before Heather whispered his name, Sara knew Grissom had stepped into the room. She kept a straight face as she turned to face him. Heather had rarely been mentioned in their conversations and whatever relationship Grissom had with Heather had not interfered in their lives. She tried not to smile at his surprised look which quickly turned to one of concern as he saw Heather. He waited until she had finished her work, stepping aside as she exited the room.

"Later," she whispered. He barely nodded as he went to Heather's side.

_A/N: Thanks again, now review again! The Heather episode continues! So write a few words--takes 30 seconds! It is fun to read your thoughts and ideas---really!_


	20. Chapter 20

_As a thank you for those reviews, here's Chapter 20! Enjoy--let us know what you think!_

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 20**

Sara returned to the lab and worked. She knew Grissom would show up; Catherine returned with additional evidence from the crime scene and heaped that on the growing mound at Sara's side. When Grissom arrived, he appeared more worried than Sara expected—when she tried to tease about the color of lipstick, he responded with an expression of growing concern.

She told him all she knew from the evidence. He nodded and disappeared; Sara returned to processing fingerprints and lipstick smears. Later, as processing continued and slowed to a near standstill, Sara drove home, slept a few hours and showered before getting a call from Catherine. Grissom was not at home but his miniature office was missing from his desk. This was not the first time he had disappeared and as she had not seen Greg, she thought the two must be on some other case, or, more likely, the two were chasing down Ernie Dell's foster children.

The body of Vernon Porter, the night watchman, had been found at the old western town. She met Catherine and began processing the bullets; later she listened as Doc Robbins explained how he found cause of death as he handed her the metal-jacket bullet.

Sara was in the layout room when she sensed a wave of commotion that occurred when news of some sort hit the lab, more footsteps in the hall than usual, low voices in a place that rarely kept noise at a low volume, and then Jim Brass arrived at the door.

"Hey, kiddo. What're you working on?"

She glanced up. "This Lady Heather stuff—and now Vernon Porter. You got something for me?"

He walked to the table and placed his palms on its surface. "We went out to Heather Kessler's place—she—she has an alibi for Porter's shooting."

"I didn't think she did it." Sara kept her eyes down. She knew there was something else coming from Jim.

Jim cleared his throat. "I thought you should know—Grissom was there—he's her alibi for the night." He cleared his throat again. "We'll keep looking. She's in my office now." And just as quickly as he had arrived, he disappeared.

She leaned against the table and tried to breathe. She closed her eyes—he had his reasons for being in Heather's house—she gulped for air and bent her head to the microscope and tried to focus. She heard Catherine in the hall talking with Jim. Please, she thought, let Catherine stay away for a while; she needed a little time to process what she had just heard.

By the time Catherine came into the layout room, Sara had lined up what evidence they had for both crimes, certain they were connected. And then Grissom walked in as Catherine and Wendy left the room. The look on his face gave him away—he knew she had heard. She swallowed her emotions and told him they had a suspect.

He said something about trust.

"Sara…" he began.

She interrupted, "Yeah." She saw the quick flash of emotions play across his face—guilt, or remorse or concern—she wasn't sure. Before he could continue, she said, "Do what you need to do" and left him standing alone.

She realized the cause of the earlier, unusual stir after a fourth person told her that Grissom had spent the night with Lady Heather; twice she heard it had not been the first time. She chewed her lip and kept quiet but her anger and fury rose as the very people who should have supported Grissom, at least by keeping quiet, were the ones who were spreading this news. Even Catherine looked smug as she confirmed what she had seen at Heather Kessler's house to Hodges and another guy. As soon as she could, Sara left the lab.

Grissom opened the door to the garage an hour after she had gotten home. Hank who had been walked and fed, heard the sound, and was waiting at the door. She was cooking noodles on the stove and cutting vegetables up to stir-fry. She had showered, changed into jeans and a tank top, but, her feelings were painfully raw about the events of the past twenty-four hours. It had taken every ounce of control she possessed not to break down into tears as she drove home. She had no lawful or legitimate claim on Grissom's time, no claim on his fidelity, and certainly no long-term commitment had ever been voiced by either. She tried to convince herself it was not his night with Heather that had upset her, but the secrecy of it and even that should not have caused her the anguish she felt. It was something else—something she could not name as she sliced through a yellow squash. She cut until nothing resembled its original form and her hand ached from using the knife.

He came in smiling, seeing Sara as astonishingly beautiful. "Hey." He wanted to kiss her but she moved around the kitchen before he could reach her.

"Do you want a drink?" She asked. She nodded in the direction of the refrigerator. "Help yourself."

He stared at her as if a stranger stood in their kitchen. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing."

Grissom frowned. "What is this?" He knew by the set of her mouth, by the avoidance of her eyes, that something was wrong. "What's happened?"

She glared at him, close to tears. "Nothing—not to me—but what's happened to you?"

He raked his hand through his hair. Heather, he thought, it's about Heather. "I've been working—she—Heather checked herself out of the hospital—I knew something was wrong." He stepped in her direction and, again, she moved around the kitchen counter to stay out of his reach. "Sara—she needs help."

His words were greeted with silence. She seethed—he knew her anger and, up to this moment, had been fortunate that her fury had rarely been directed at him. "I'm sorry, Sara. I—I don't know what to say." He was ready to be humble, to apologize for whatever it was that had made her so angry. He tried again. "Sara, Heather lost her daughter. She spent a lot of money to find her granddaughter and then the court would not let her have custody. She—she's closed her business, but that didn't matter. She is—has problems—her mental health…"

"You're not a psychiatrist, Grissom."

Her use of his last name in their home was like a slap. He wiped a hand over his face. Sara sniffed. She had turned so Grissom could not see her face, but he knew the kind of sniff that came from crying. "You could have called, left a message," she said with an uneven, hoarse voice.

"Why? We—we don't tell each other where we're going when we are working!"

"You are telling me you were on the clock at Heather's house? Collecting evidence for what?" She spoke loudly, her voice shaking as she said Heather's name. She hated when her voice betrayed her like that. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Five seconds, that's all it would have taken to tell me—five seconds—so I don't hear it from five people who are gossiping in the hallway!" She turned away and wiped her face.

He heard the pain in her voice and stepped around the counter; she didn't move yet he was afraid to touch her. "You're the most wonderful thing that's happened to me, Sara. I—I—please forgive me for being a fool." He took her hand in his.

She looked toward the window, biting her lip, fighting back tears. "Yes, you are," she said. "You make me feel—cheap! Like I'm—not important." Her words stung him as her eyes spilled tears.

He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and moist, sweet. He savored the feel and taste of her and knew he could kiss her forever and never get tired. He knew he needed to say the words.

When they eventually broke apart, he said: "I could kiss you forever—I'm sorry I didn't call you. I did think about you and I knew you would be working." His head touched her forehead, his thumbs dried her cheeks and then he brought her into his arms, tightly hugging her. "I love you, Sara Sidle." He continued to hold her until the stiffness of her shoulders relaxed and she softened in his arms. "I'm so sorry, Sara. You know you are the most important person in my life—I know I become too isolated at times. It doesn't mean I love you less." He tilted her chin again and kissed her until she opened her lips and returned his desire.

When they parted, he could feel the need for her in his own body; she has no idea, he thought, how much she means to me.

"Tell me about Heather," she whispered. Her voice had returned to that provocative teasing lilt of the woman he loved. She reached for a skillet but his hand followed hers as he kept her within his arms. She laughed. "I can cook—you can talk."

Grissom sat on one of the high stools and talked about Heather. "I wish I could talk to her ex-husband," he said. "If he would let Heather visit with the baby, it would probably help her get some direction in her life."

"Why don't you call him?" Sara said as she plated noodles and spooned a mix of vegetables over the top. "What can he say?" As Grissom begin to eat, Sara talked. "When my mother was sent to the mental hospital, I went to see her a few times, but I never visited her when she was sent to prison. I don't even remember being asked if I wanted to—just shuffled off into foster care where no one talked about what happened." She stirred her food together with her fork. "I think from my experience, I'd want to know my grandmother—Heather seems to be a nice person." She glanced up at Grissom who was watching her; a wicked grin crossed her face. "Beside, little Alyson would be the only kid in kindergarten with a dominatrix as her grandma! Imagine that at show and tell." She snickered at her story.

Grissom ate; after dinner he cleaned the kitchen and took out the trash before he made a phone call to Jerome Kessler. Then he searched through their movies until he found a certain old one and joined Sara and Hank on their bed.

"What are we watching?"

"A favorite," he said as he crawled beside her. He pressed 'Play' and music and screen titles familiar to Sara begin to play.

She grinned. "I love this movie."

"I know you do."

"You don't like it—you never watch it with me."

"Tonight I will." He wrapped arms and legs around her and settled back against the pillows.

"I love Venice," she said.

"One day, I'll take you there." He kissed her neck in that very sensitive spot just below her ear.

_A/N: Moving forward--tell us how we handled Sara's reaction! And thanks to all who review! _


	21. Chapter 21

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 21**

The tickle along her neck was a light feathery touch with a slight scratch, pleasing and pleasant enough to wake her and cause a turn of her chin. The feel was a welcomed one, and she rolled and smiled. Grissom had not shaved, but he smelled of a recent shower and a soft clean shirt. She nudged her nose against his chest.

"You smell good," she mumbled.

"You went to sleep before the movie ended."

"I know the ending—it's sad. She leaves her lover." She started pushing his shirt up, stopped, and rolled quickly out of bed. "Be right back!" She scooted around the bed and into the bathroom, returning within minutes.

Grissom stayed in bed, removed his shirt, straightened the covers, and pulled the sheet up to his waist. Waiting for Sara, he grinned as he worked the sheet around himself. Sara was half way to the bed when she saw his 'arrangement' of a peaked tent over his hips.

"Is that for real?" She teased.

A provocative smile played across his mouth changing his expression to one of deliberate anticipation. His hands lifted. "It happens around you! I can't help myself."

She plunged into the bed, messing up the covers, and laughing, finding an erection that would make any young man boast.

His laughter joined hers, "Wait, wait! You can't do that!" He grabbed her hands and pulled her up. Once he had her face within his hands, he threw a leg over hers and wedged her against his aroused body. "You okay—about everything—not angry with me?"

When her smile widened and her fingers caressed his stubbly cheek and gently combed through his hair, he needed no answer. He kissed her, gently and quickly, but she responded eagerly, parting her lips for him and pushing fingers through his hair. A delicious tension began to build inside her as his palm closed over her left breast. His thumb circled her nipple; his mouth moved to her neck.

Perhaps it was the long years of wanting him, but she could respond to his look, his touch in seconds. As she returned his kisses, she felt a quiver ripple his chest. She moved her hands lower, gliding along the expanse of bare flesh until she was again surrounding his maleness. He made a sound, half groan, half laugh and captured her exploring hand.

"If you go there, this will be over in seconds, dear," he said against the curve of her shoulder. Cradling her in his arm, he pushed her shirt away and placed lips against her skin slowly moving to her right breast where he kissed, tasted and gently sucked until her nipples were erect and her muscles were fluttering across her belly. His knee moved between her legs and with delicate pressure, he made room for his hips to meet hers.

Sara felt his hot erection against her thigh and he shifted to bring it between her legs. His hand moved and he began to stroke her in the most intimate way, probing the damp, warm entrance of her body. She kissed him deeply, penetrating his mouth with her tongue as he eased himself into her body, filling her as he moved. She sensed he was at his limits of control—a rare occurrence when she could withhold her desire longer than he—as he rocked against her, moving faster. She felt the muscles of his back go rigid beneath her palms. In seconds, he would be spent and she met his rhythm as her own desire soared; she knew when he came, feeling the pulsating sensation inside her, but by then, she was rapidly diving into her own passionate whirlpool.

Her first climax was as gentle as a wind before a summer storm, warm, expected, knowing what was coming; the second came as that storm, gathering great thunderclouds before dumping sheets of rain, flooding everything in its path. Grissom worked her as an accomplished player of a Steinway. His fingers knew what to do, his mouth worked, his eyes watched and Sara responded. Her breaths came in pants as she twisted against him, called his name before thoughts and consciousness lost to the overpowering culmination of sexual passion.

When he lay beside her in the drowsy, heavy-eyed moments of peace following orgasm, tracing invisible lines on her body with his finger as she regained normal breathing, they both knew how much this life meant to them yet they were quiet. Once, Grissom had tried to tell her how much she had changed his life, but stumbling over words, she had shushed him saying "I know."

Today was no different; yet Grissom felt the need to say something—to make up for his thoughtless actions and for causing her pain.

"Sara," he begin, "if there is any thing you want—anything you need—you will tell me, won't you. I've never gotten you candy—or a ring—the usual things a man buys the woman he loves—but I will." He had wrapped his hand around hers, possessively, intertwining their fingers into a clasp. "One day—we'll take a trip, I promise—to Venice and Paris and Rome."

She smiled, pressed her lips together before smiling again. "Is this a proposal, Gilbert?"

Her words surprised him, but the lilt in her voice was playful, yet uncertain. He lifted an eyebrow, "It can be—if you want—we could get engaged."

The look on her face went from playful to full blown tease. "Not me, Gil. I'm not one for engagement—but a trip would be nice—off to some remote part of the earth. Maybe the rainforest before Venice and Paris."

"We'd need to tell everyone," he reminded her.

She nodded. "I know—but not yet. I like us this way. No one knows but Greg and he hasn't said anything—and I think Jim might know." Her eyes danced and glittered when she looked at him. "You haven't told him, have you?"

"He might know."

Sara grinned, knowing that would be as close to an admission as she was likely to get from him.

"We have to go to work in a while," she whispered, kissing his chest and working her way to his neck, along his jaw before reaching his mouth.

Another quiet shift followed; the usual dead body on a park bench, a hit and run, a random shooting kept everyone busy except for Grissom who remained in his office running down hints from internet clues to the miniature killer. The unsolved puzzle and murders weighed on everyone's mind and especially on Gil Grissom. He closed his office door and left with the others as shift ended.

When he placed the thick legal-sized package on the kitchen counter, Sara tore into it using her fingernails instead of waiting for Grissom to pass her scissors. Her instructions had been carried out—she had doubted if the attorneys would really do as she asked. Money had been transferred into her mother's bank account for usual and daily expenses and Kris' name had been added to her account along with Sara's. Another set of papers established the remaining funds as a shared account in her name and Grissom's—he had protested but after she pointed out the need for someone else to be able to pay her mother's bills should anything happen to her, he agreed, reluctant but willing. Another bundle was copies of old legal documents, birth and death certificates, military records, even Social Security numbers of men Sara had never known.

"Why did you ask for these?"

"I wanted to know who they were—how an old man made money and left it to a relative he never met." She chuckled. "I'll find out about these old ghosts," she said and then frowned. Her look became sober. "My father has always been a ghost—it's hard to remember him except in a fog." She brightened just as quickly. "So I am going to learn what I can about him—his father and this uncle who left us this money!"

Grissom decided to say nothing more. He was obsessed by the maker of miniatures and at least her free time was not in search of a killer. Later, she spread the papers over the bed and read about a grandfather and a great uncle she never knew while he searched the Internet for a clue to a murderer who made tiny replicas of mundane every day things.

On a day much like any other, they read, slept, walked Hank, and dressed for work. Later, both would realize there was no premonition, no warning of what was to come. Grissom left Sara at the scene of death for one of the Dell foster kids. Only later would Grissom remember using a term of endearment as he left her. At some point DNA discovered their killer was not a male, but a female, and Grissom was back in the modeler's shop with the tiny doll dressed in white wearing a silver bracelet.

While they had all walked around confident in their ability to find this killer, she had walked among them—unseen, unnoticed, unimportant to their lives. Grissom was right; by observation, he had changed her pattern. As he lifted the red car, his heart almost stopped beating. The doll—the doll with its dark hair wearing its tiny vest—his eyes blurred and he had to blink as realization flooded his brain—the doll was Sara.

Sara had no time to lift her pink whistle to her mouth before sudden, intensifying pain stiffened her body knocking her with a vengeance to the concrete as she crumbled into a helpless heap. Tased, she thought. She was cognizant of being dragged across the floor, trying to talk, to resist, as her body was scraped and bruised by a strange young woman who heaved and shoved her into the trunk of a car. She was aware of a liquid being forced into her mouth, a hand covered her nose and she gasped, choked, and swallowed. For a few seconds, everything around her reached a point of crystal clarity—unbelievable physical pain as a result of the taser, an intense smell of musty dirt in her nose, the feel of the rough carpet in the trunk. She felt the girl's hands—soft hands treating her roughly—and heard breathing, rapid huffs and puffs of two people before realizing she was hearing her own lungs trying to fill with air. And, as if a switch was flipped, all went black.

Confusion came first; she remembered the elevator and talking to Grissom. Someone said her name as she reached her car but it took a while before she woke; alert enough to realize she was in the trunk of a moving car, hands fastened behind her back. Her mind began to clear as she remembered Grissom's voice on the phone; she twisted and the band on her wrists tightened. Flex-cuffs, she thought. She and Nick and Greg had spent an entire shift working with a sharp tool to release the catch on these flexible strips.

She remembered Grissom naming the miniature killer—Natalie Davis—but how did she end up in the trunk of a car, captured, drugged, and cuffed, and no one knew where she was. Her head hurt so much it was hard to think. Determined she was not going to die in a trunk, adrenaline poured into her blood stream and she worked with furious speed. She was not going to become human soup in a hot car. She struggled, used her teeth to pull the taser barb from her shoulder, grunted as she maneuvered the sharp point to her hands. Her mind raced—or functioned as fast as she could make it work with lingering effects of some knock-out drug—as she tried to put events in order. Her thoughts stumbled as she tried to figure out who had hit her with the taser and why she had been kidnapped.

_A/N: And it begins--Sara's dark descent, but this is only the beginning! Keep reading--next chapter soon! Review, please!_


	22. Chapter 22

**_A/N: _**_Short chapter, but a required one..._

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 22**

In a frenzy, her actions those of a sane person thrown into a black hole, she escaped—launched her body out of the car and rolled, tumbled until she blacked out from pain. The throbbing ache in her head and cold fluid in her mouth woke her up; she was in the car—had she ever left it, she thought. She could not remember ever experiencing the racking pain she felt. Her entire body hurt—the woman was pouring water into her mouth—she swallowed. Water meant she was living, not dying—the pain made her know she was alive.

Ernie Dell's foster child had taken her. Some how in this disoriented space, her brain synapses worked and she knew this woman was Natalie Davis. She tried to talk—baffled and puzzled until she heard Grissom's name. She tried to make sense out of what she was hearing. Her mouth tried to speak words; it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault—but nothing formed. The water had not been life giving—darkness closed around her brain.

So many thoughts went around in her brain as her body revolted with pain; at times excruciating pain stopped her thoughts. Sara was trapped and Natalie had driven away leaving her lying in the sand of the desert. Under a car. Pinned under a car. She was living a nightmare written by a crazy person—and she had recognized Natalie as one of the people who came in to clean the lab. As she struggled, she was unsure of what had actually happened, what she had dreamed in drug-induced sleep. She realized no one knew where she was—yes, Grissom knew she had left the café. He would look for her—she fought—her arm would come free! She nearly fainted from the sharp pain. He wouldn't know where to look, she remembered.

A coyote—a living, breathing creature—pawed at the ground, sniffing, sensing her fear. She held her breath as it moved nearer; suddenly, as quickly as it had arrived, the animal left her. When the rain came she cried tears of frustration; her situation was quickly worsening from trapped to drowning. She fought against a ton of weight, trying to dig her knees into the sand; one hand pulled free and she was able to wince the mirror free—a tool, she thought, but ineffective for freeing her from the fast rising water.

She gritted her teeth, took a fast lung of air and went under water again jerking her arm until she cried out. _Life isn't for everybody_. She had heard that statement in college; life was for her, she decided—she had made that decision when she was eight years old and her father had pushed her into a closet, placed a chair against its knob, and left her there while he beat her mother. She gulped more air and went after her trapped arm. She would not drown! Suddenly, she was free—water shifted the car and she floated or fought her way out.

Wobbling on her feet, she stood, released, breathing rain-filled air, doing nothing for a minute as her arm throbbed. She was barely able to breathe as she steadied herself, coughing threatened to tear her shoulder from its joint. When she was able to move, she eased out of her shirt and with her right hand and teeth managed a rough sling for her arm. There wasn't as much pain as there had been; she would live, she thought.

Pain was a motivator; to stay here meant death in a flash flood; go higher, she thought, and she began to move, putting one foot in front of the other. She fell once, twice, as she fought for balance. For a while, there was nothing but blinding pain, rain and the knowledge that she had no sense of direction in the rain. She found a rock and leaned against it, slowly sliding to the ground, letting rain fall into her mouth—she needed water to live, and she would live. She shivered as the rain stopped; somewhere she had lost her vest.

As the sky cleared, she wished she believed in God that she might thank him for the stars. She tried to remember when she stopped believing in God and religion. At one time she had believed—but praying for a miracle that didn't come, praying for her father not to come home, praying that he would not beat her mother or throw their dinner on the porch, praying for neighbors not to notice, praying for her mother—after a while, she lost whatever belief a child was supposed to have in God. It took more years than she could remember, but she went for science instead.

For what seemed an eternity, she sat against her rock, cradled her arm and thought about Grissom. He had already missed her, she thought, but he wouldn't know about Natalie or where she was and this was a big desert—but he wouldn't know to look in the desert. She would probably die as an unknown victim of that crazy Natalie Davis who built miniatures of death scenes. The thought jarred something in her mind—perhaps there was a miniature of her and the car—the last one had been left in Grissom's office. He would know and he would figure it out—he would find her.

Whimpering and grinding her teeth because she could not stop herself, she struggled to stand, looked above her and figured out north and south. She might walk to Mexico by going south so she headed west—California or mountains or more desert. She walked a short way before thinking to leave a marker of her path.

The chill of the night left in minutes as the sun rose and spread its golden heat across the sand but Sara was goaded into action by her determination to survive. As the early hours passed, she knew dehydration and sunstroke were her enemies, and she kept walking. She climbed another rock outcropping to search for anything familiar—a power line, a road, a car, a sparkle of light from the city—and it paid off; she saw a narrow ribbon of highway in the distance. Her body was slow, fatigue entangled her feet and she pitched forward, rolling, plummeting downward, agonizing paralyzing pain flooded every cell in her body.

For a few minutes, she glimpsed the end, peace would come; she would be free from pain. Then guilt took over. Her mother would know she died; Grissom would be miserable and depressed, see her death as a failure. The others would see her death as useless—dying because some lunatic had tased her and managed to leave her in the desert to die—provided someone found her body. This kind of dying wasn't a comfort to those she loved, she decided. She sat up thinking about her dead father. His death had not been a comfort either, she thought. She had lived with his ghost for years as had her mother; there had been no peace with his death for anyone—he had beaten happiness out of her mother, made her afraid of her past.

She muttered a few words and pushed herself up. She would not sink into complete disorientation; she began to repeat multiplication tables. Why did she do that, she thought. The mantra kept her moving around rocks, stumbling over scrub bushes, heading in the direction of what she was sure was a highway. It had not looked so far away but now seemed an impossible distance. Her head spun in never ending circles, her mind confused, vision blurred, whiteness closed her eyes as her feet zigzagged, her arm fell from its sling, and without a sound, she dropped to the ground.

…_Little Sara Sidle was hidden in a closet, lying with her face on the cool wooden floor, just able to peer underneath the door with one eye. A bright line of light let her know there was life outside of this darkness and as long as she kept her eye on the light, she knew her mother would come—eventually. She was learning multiplication tables in her third grade class and whispered the numbers over and over. The comforting sound of the predictable kept her company until the chair would be moved and her mother's hands would surround her in comfort; she had not been forgotten_…

She desperately wanted to feel Grissom's hands—she moved the fingers of her right hand and felt warmth. Not the gritty heat of blistering sand, but living, breathing, pulsating flesh against flesh—against her fingers. Her eyes flickered, unfocused; she blinked again. It was not a mirage or a dream or a delusion—he was here. She read the name on his vest "GRISSOM". She lived. She breathed. She had not been forgotten.

_A/N: Reviews, comments appreciated! We are puzzled--who are the readers--hundreds of you by the traffic numbers--and we never hear a word from you! How old are you? where do you live? What about this story makes you come back to read the next chapter? Several have asked about length--right now, its 30 chapters, but we are adding at least one more chapter and continue to "tweak" some of the last chapters. SO--a guess of 32 chapters. Enjoy! Keep reading! More sweet smut coming up! Could you leave Grissom without at least a bit of lovin'?_


	23. Chapter 23

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 23**

"Natalie." It was the one word she could whisper through her parched lips and yet no one seemed to be paying attention. The bright room was crowded with white ghost-like shapes and confusing noises; it took several minutes for Sara to realize she was in a hospital—most likely an emergency room from all the frantic sounds and movement. If she could see, she could figure out what was going on; she couldn't feel anything, not even the boots on her feet. Had she dreamed being in the desert? Being trapped underneath a car? Walking in the heat? No, she thought, at least part of that had happened—tased—she remembered that. If she were in the emergency room because she had been knocked out with a taser, Greg would never let her live it down. She tried to laugh but her mouth refused to move. Her mind would not work in a logical progression. Had Grissom really been with her? And who was Natalie? She remembered Grissom had said the name of the serial killer was Natalie; her mind misted over again.

Finally, someone lifted the mask—blurred gloved hands blocked her vision for a few seconds and she heard someone say, "She's awake."

Grissom's voice drifted into Sara's cloudy brain and she smiled, or tried to smile. She wasn't sure her mouth moved, but in her mind, she welcomed the sound of his voice.

A soft warmth crept around her hand and, for the first time since waking in all the noise and bright light, Sara knew whose hand was holding hers. "Grissom," she said, or she thought she said, but the warmth in her hand receded. She wondered if death did not have a cold hand but one warm and open, welcoming saints and sinners alike, taking away the pain of suffering. If so, she had cheated death as she winced from sudden pain.

A new sensation came with the pain. The warmth that had touched her hand now touched her neck and spread to her face. "Sara, you're going to be fine."

She blinked her eyes; her eyelids felt like sandpaper scratching deep furrows across her irises. Grissom's hand was on her cheek, his face only inches away, so close it was hard to bring into focus. His eyes were so near hers she could see the dark blue color fade into a lighter blue near his pupils. His face was red—she tried to bring her hand up to his face but something held it down. She grunted and struggled.

"No, honey, relax. They've started an IV for fluids. Look at me, Sara." His voice was warm, pleasing, near her ear, and extremely loved. "I'll be here—your arm is broken. They are going to take you away for a short time, but I'll be here. Waiting."

Finally, she whispered, "Natalie."

She could see the smile in his eyes. "We got her. She can't hurt anyone else." His hand stayed on her face. "We have to take care of you now, Sara. I'll be here when you come back."

There was more confusion, more noise, and she was being moved along a corridor with bright lights. Her eyes had cleared and she could see Grissom walking beside her and knew it was his hand gently resting on her head. She tried to say "Someone will notice you're paying special attention to me" but it was too many words and something was wrong with her voice because no sound came out and she thought she saw Catherine and Brass standing near a wall. She started counting the light fixtures passing over her head but after a door opened, she lost count. Before she could begin counting again someone said she was going to be moved and hands shifted her—gentle hands being extremely careful in how they moved her; so unlike how Natalie had shoved her into the trunk head first. She closed her eyes and slept a dreamless sleep.

The room she woke in was dark and cool and the hurt from her shoulder and arm seemed to have spread all over her body. There was an unaccustomed weight on her left arm and another lighter weight on her right knee. Her sigh must have been louder than she meant it to be because the weight on her knee moved and Grissom's face appeared.

"Hey," he whispered. "Coming back to us?" His finger touched her chin and tenderly traced to her cheek. "You've had a rough time."

She tried to smile but wasn't sure her mouth was working until she heard a raspy croak and realized it was her own voice saying "Gil". Then Catherine appeared beside Grissom, and she was smiling.

"You had us worried, girl!" Her hand rested on Grissom's shoulder. "And this guy wasn't going to stop until he found you." She tapped her fingers against his shoulder. "I'll go tell everyone you're better." Her tapping turned to a pat. "Take care of her—we'll see you two when she's home."

Sara's mind was still extremely hazy—Grissom sitting beside her, touching her face in front of Catherine who was coming to see her at home. Her eyes went to Grissom; for a minute she forgot about her own aches when she saw how red his face was. Sunburn, she thought. He had not thought to cover his face with sun block; of course, he never did remember and she had not been there to remind him. She tried to raise her hand to his face, but she was attached to several lines going to something behind her head and her hand was taped to a padded board.

With one hand Grissom gently lifted her head and brought a cup and straw to her mouth with the other and she sucked in water. Gradually, she was able to talk and asked a few questions. Had he called her mother, she asked, and he said "no, I didn't want to worry her."

She drank more water and juice, examined the huge white cast on her arm, got poked and prodded by nurses and doctors, and had to have help going to the bathroom. That's when she saw her face and the bruises and scrapes that told the story of why she ached all over.

Her chin trembled, and for the first time, tears came in her eyes. The nurse helping her, a woman with years of experience with trauma victims, got her back to bed with soothing words.

"Nothing that time won't heal, honey. You've got your life back—and a sweet guy waiting on you." The nurse smiled. "He's the talk of the floor—worst of the worse kind—before you woke he was on the call bell any time you made a sound." She was skillful in how she positioned Sara's cast and reconnected the lines for fluids and heart monitor. "Try to get some sleep and all this—except for the cast—will come off next shift." She smoothed the sheet over Sara and folded a blanket at her feet, opened the door and found Grissom standing at its threshold, waiting.

"I brought some food—the other nurse said it was okay," he explained the foam clam shell tray in his hand.

Sara ate four bites before she became too exhausted to eat. Lying back onto the pillow, she said, "Tell me what else happened," she said. She had watched Grissom as the hours passed and he had talked about Natalie and about finding a new miniature in his office and about the search for her, how Nick had spotted a reflection in the desert and she had been flown to Desert Palms. But she knew there was something else—something he had not told her.

After he finished his meal and ate the rest of hers, she asked, "Am I dying?" And tried to smile as she asked.

Immediately, he was beside the bed, his hand trying to find a place that wasn't broken, or bruised, or scraped. "No, honey, you're going to be fine—why did you ask?" The concern on his face was so apparent she regretted her question, but there had to be a reason for his obvious unease.

"You look worried," she said.

He had found a place to touch her face and gently leaned and kissed her cheek. "I was scared to death, Sara. When I realized Natalie had taken you—I—I couldn't think. Catherine asked why Natalie had taken you and—I knew—I knew it was to get back at me for Ernie Dell's death. She had figured it out—and she took the one person I love." He sat on the edge of her bed; his hand covered his face, his fingers pinched his nose in a familiar nervous gesture. "Later, Catherine told me what I said—they know about us, Sara—it just came out…" His voice trailed to a whisper.

"Oh, Gil," she said, wanting to hold him. She tried to move but the huge cast, the IV to her arm and wires to her chest hampered her ability. She raised her right arm and scooted her legs to one side of the bed. He crawled into the narrow bed, arranged her right arm and lifted her so he could bend an arm underneath her head. His need to hold her was as great as her want for comfort and somehow they managed to find a way to sleep in a mangled arrangement with legs wrapped together, her head nested against his chin, his arms around her and the cast resting on a pillow.

By the time the lines and tubes were removed, Sara was begging to go home knowing she could sleep for hours in her own bed. But they had to wait for the physicians to agree, wait for lab results, and wait for discharge papers which took hours. Grissom brought her fresh clothing but then they realized she could not zip her pants without help, the shirt would not fit over her arm and fatigue and frustration made tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes. A nurse appeared with pins, tape, and scissors and in a short time, the shirt was cut and expertly taped together and they were on their way home.

Grissom, either by design or avoidance, did not ask how she felt until she was safely home and on the sofa. Still a little disoriented by all the events, she found it hard to believe things were still the same at home—her book was still on the table, her jacket carelessly thrown on the back of a chair, even the oranges were the same ones she had put in the bowl just a few days previously.

"You okay?" He asked as he handed her a glass of cold water. He hovered around her for several minutes as she drank and passed the empty container back to him.

"I'm fine—really, I'm fine. Just happy to be home." She leaned her head against the sofa. "I could sleep right here."

Quickly, he brought another pillow and blanket and she almost toppled into sleep as he lifted her feet to the sofa. "I'll be here—if you need anything."

She shook her head. "Go back to work—I'll be fine."

Grissom knelt beside the sofa and said, "I'm home with you until you are better—understand? I'm not going back to work until you do."

Sara's eyes were already closed and she barely heard his last sentence. He stayed by her side, within a few feet, over the next twenty-four hours. He was there when she went to get an apple, when she changed the television channel, when she went to the bathroom and tried to brush her hair. His attentions to help her were welcomed as fatigue and weakness stayed with her through the first day. Dressing herself was impossible, going to the bathroom alone was unmanageable, getting something to eat was difficult.

By the second day when he continued to follow her steps, rarely letting her out of sight, even when Nick came by with food and Catherine brought several books. When the simplest chore became impossible for her to complete, her frustration boiled over into anger. She snapped at Grissom, throwing a fork into the sink and leaning against the refrigeration.

"I can't do anything right," she fumed. His arms around her did nothing to calm her and she tried to move away, fighting back tears she didn't want him to see.

"Sara—Sara. Honey, let me do this—let me help you. That's why I'm here."

She sobbed, "I have to do something—I can't just sit here!"

He held her until the crying slowed to sniffs. "Let's go for a ride. Anywhere—take Hank to Red Rocks—would you like that." He realized he had just suggested a return to the desert. "Or any place you want to go," he added quickly trying to think of a place she loved that wasn't desert. "How about San Francisco for a few days—see your mother; we can spend a day as tourists? We can drive if you want—take Hank with us. Why don't you think about that?"

Her cast made it difficult to be hugged, more difficult to actually hug him, but she tried. "I'll be fine, Gil. I'm so tired right now, I don't think I could walk half a block in Las Vegas much less up a hill in San Francisco." She looked at him with watery eyes. "I do appreciate the offer—I do. Maybe tomorrow, I'll have more energy."

Grissom guided her to the bed. "You need to sleep. Do you want one of the pills the doctor gave you?" He fluffed pillows and turned the covers back.

She shook her head. "I think I can sleep. Will you stay with me?" Her voice quivered very slightly. "Until I go to sleep—I know you must have a lot to do—I just…" She did not finish her sentence as he took her face between his hands and kissed her. Not the companion touch of assurance, but a deep, prolonged kiss of passion.

"We'll both sleep," he said. He arranged pillows to support her arm, tucked another under her head, and bent to take her socks off. His hands held her feet—her boots had protected them from the worst of her ordeal, but there were small healing blisters on the pad of each foot. His thumb stroked her arch and his fingers encircled her foot as he gently massaged and kneaded; he felt her muscles relax and he moved to an ankle, avoiding an open sore right above its prominent bone. Above that point, he knew she was covered with more redden scrapes, multiple scratches, and blue-black bruises that continued to be painful, so he kept one foot in his lap while his fingers moved back to her toes.

"You have beautiful feet," he said, his voice suddenly husky with emotion. In truth, her feet were the only part of her he felt safe in touching. He tried to mask his own rage at the beating she had taken but at times he had to look away from her face. When he had helped her bathe after coming home, he had nearly drawn blood to his lip as he patted her dry and saw the extensive bruising from her shoulder to hip. Another dark ugly bruise went from her thigh to her knee. Whatever she had endured, she seemed to remember little of it—he thought that was probably for the best. He heard a sigh filled with tiredness; she turned slightly to her right side and as he continued massaging her feet, he knew she slept.

_A/N: Yes, there's sweet smut coming up, but Sara needs to rest! So review, next chapter quickly! Thanks!!_


	24. Chapter 24

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 24**

Sara slept exactly one hundred sixty-five minutes; she had looked at the clock before closing her eyes and checked again when she opened her eyes. She wanted to sleep for hours, not fifteen minutes less than three. Grissom had been rubbing her feet in a very slow massage when she shut her eyes and dropped immediately into sleep—as if she had taken a drug. But some dream had troubled her sleep, or maybe it was the uncomfortable cast rubbing her arm or the ache from a bruise on her back that woke her. She sighed—she was doing that a lot, she thought. Sighing was a way to express her emotions that didn't involve crying she had decided.

A familiar warm body next to her made a sound and she felt Hank at her feet. She stayed very still thinking she might go back to sleep, but then her thoughts started whirling around her mind and an hour passed. For several minutes she wanted to return to sleep, but the cast weighed heavily across her body and cut into her arm near her shoulder and itched at her thumb. The heavy breathing at her side kept her quiet and motionless; Grissom needed to sleep. He was exhausted, worried, anxious—all because of what had happened to her. She blinked back tears; the last thing she wanted was to cause worry.

She glanced at the clock again. If she shifted just a little to her right she might be able to drift back to sleep. She closed her eyes but the smell of that night came instead of sleep; she squeezed her eyes tighter and willed her brain to think of some other scent. She would sleep; she turned and a weak groan escaped her throat. A forgotten bruise or scrape reminded her not to move quickly.

Grissom moved, shifted his body, and came awake. "Hey," he said, "Can't sleep?" His hand started to move across her belly before he stopped. "Sorry."

Sara's hand covered his. "I won't break, Gil. I ache in certain places." She chuckled. "And some places I'm not sore at all."

He propped up on an elbow. "Tell me where I can touch," he held up one finger.

She giggled and pointed to her cheek. He kissed it. She pointed to the right side of her neck and he followed her finger with his lips. Her hand caught his chin and she moved his face to hers. Carefully, he kissed her lips, brushed his fingers through her hair and traced around the angry redden areas on her face, gently touched the deep gash near her eye.

"I'm so sorry, Sara."

"I know—it's—it wasn't your fault."

He kissed her again, gently, feeling the warmth of her breath as she opened her lips. She pulled him into her mouth, passionate, greedy, craving with a need to have him close. Her arm with the cast moved clumsily between them. She tried to extract it from the space but the effort made her cringe.

"I'm sorry," Grissom murmured as he pulled away.

Sara had already felt the growing firmness against her thigh and for the first time in four or five days—how long had it been—she felt like living. She would drive the swirling thoughts of Natalie, the desert, the rain, the vanished hours of her life and the pain out of her mind.

"Wait—there must be a way." With one hand she grabbed his shirt and kissed him again, desire evident in how she swept her tongue along his upper lip as he smiled. She whispered, "Put Hank in the other room, please."

By the time he returned, she had managed to pull her top off and was wiggling out of her sleeping pants. He laughed, "I can do that for you!" He carried a glass filled with water and a lemon slice. "Got to keep you hydrated." She drank most of the water while he stripped off his shirt and got back in bed. He grinned. "Okay, tell me how to do this." His hand reached for her shoulder where the cast met her flesh.

She caught his hand; a sparkle had come into her eyes. "Not there," she said as she pushed his hand downward. "Ignore this—and close your eyes—don't think about what I look like."

His hand rested on her breast, his thumb began to caress her nipple. His eyes closed as he kissed her. His eyes opened as he broke the kiss. "Are you sure about this? I can't hurt you…"

"You won't—you can't," she whispered. "I do need you—physically, not just to help with—with everything." Her fingers softly touched his face.

Grissom felt a shudder ripple her chest.

Her voice broke as she tried to say something.

"What?" He asked. "What can I do?"

"I need you to need me, too." Her words were so quiet he would not have heard them if he had been more than inches from her mouth.

His heart tightened—he knew it didn't but he felt such raw emotion that he could have sworn a fist had hit him in the center of his chest. He made the determination to talk—later. Now, he grinned. "I need you, Sara. You can not imagine how much." He kissed her again, this time along her neck, down the valley between her breasts. He reached for a pillow and adjusted her plastered arm before coming back to her abdomen, kissing each cut and scrape, every bruised area from her shoulder to her hip.

He stroked the skin at the waistband of her pants, kissed the soft flesh as he pulled the fabric away, and gently lifted her butt as he pushed them off her hips. Her body looked like a map of some unknown world with countries painted in shades of blue and purple and black with splotches of red thrown in to mark some special place. He had to work to keep his face calm—this was his fault, he thought. She should not have had to endure, suffer at the hands of a killer he should have caught. He pushed his thoughts aside.

He finally got to the place on her body where there was no bruising, no abrasions, just soft skin in beautiful shades of pink. He let out an audible groan as he bent to the sweet triangle between her legs. He heard a soft giggle. He looked up to find two dark brown eyes watching him. Keeping his palm against her, he moved back to her face.

Very quietly, his voice tender and low with emotion, said, "I want you more than you can ever realize—not just sex, your body, but your thoughts, your arms around me, your smile, your voice. I don't know what I would do if—if I lost you. Understand?"

She nodded, a smile swept across her face.

"Now," he moved his fingers, "I have an erection going on down here that needs attention, and—I think I've found what it needs." He moved along her body, kissing each breast, tasting her belly, keeping his fingers working between her feminine folds as he moved.

Her legs moved to make room for him; her stomach rippled as he felt her readiness and his tongue touched the swollen, sensitive bud of her sex. She could feel him pressed against her inner thigh, his fingers gently working inside of her; she ached with desire.

"Gil," she whispered, wanting him with the lusty need caused by lack of recent intimacy and a longing that went beyond a few days of abstinence. She tried to move her immobilized arm before realizing there was no way to move it out of the way. She clenched a fist in his hair and tugged. She got his attention.

"Help me—on top," she said. He looked at her, puzzled before comprehension occurred. He grinned.

Rolling onto his back, he pulled her to straddle his thighs, found his tee shirt and handed it to her. "Pull this over your head—stabilize you arm."

She did so, putting her free arm through the sleeve but keeping the cast next to her chest. He stroked her, watching her face as her lower body tightened at his touch. She moved against his hand, her face changed to one of happiness. He felt the first wave of her contractions, clamped his hands around her hips and drove himself deep inside her. She gasped and made a satisfied cry as he pumped, quickly, as waves of pleasure rippled through her. His hands kept her above him and, in less than a minute, he joined her in that sparkling whirlpool of desire.

"How do you feel?"

Sara stared at the doctor—he wasn't a real medical doctor but a psychologist who had introduced himself as Dr. Mills. Whenever anyone in the department required counseling to return to work, they were sent to this guy. She had lucked out after her almost DUI and gotten a counselor, not the shrink, but this time, because her kidnapping fell into the category of "taken hostage", she got to see the psychologist in his shiny clean office decorated in shades of gray and black and chrome.

"I feel good," Sara said as she attempted to arrange her arm in a chair that would never be comfortable.

Dr. Mills smiled and waited. Sara smiled back and waited. Years ago, she had learned to sit and wait for men like Dr. Mills to tell her what they wanted to hear. She remembered another man just like this one, after her father had been killed, after her mother had disappeared into a legal and medical maze of treatment, when a social worker decided she should have the quiet, dark-haired daughter evaluated and analyzed by a man just like Dr. Mills.

Finally, he said, "How do you feel about the incident with Natalie Davis?"

"I'm good," she said. "Not bad. My arm is getting better—or I'm getting better at maneuvering with it in a cast. Bruises are fading—no scars to show." She had purposefully talked around his question.

He sighed, audibly, and smiled a bigger smile, and waited.

Actually, anger boiled and pressed on her sternum in a way that had thrown her off balance. She needed to breath clean air, smell fresh flowers, feel a gentle rain and sunshine on her face. She looked out of the window and saw nothing but plastic and concrete, harsh, unforgiving sun, and traffic.

"You seem to be carrying a lot of anger."

Dr. Mills might not be as stupid as she had heard, she thought. She tried to calm the heat inside her chest. If it burst—if she let it burst—she would spill her guts to this man, and he would make a report of her outburst that would wind around and through layers of bureaucracy until someone—Ecklie, most likely—would read it. And then Grissom would find out—Ecklie would boast of the loose canon he always knew Sara Sidle to be.

No, today, Dr. Mills would not unleash the pressure of the volcano pressing against her breastbone.

"How is your relationship with Dr. Grissom?"

Sara took a deep breath. They would rename her "Mount St. Sara"—maybe without the "Saint" part of the name. Steam would pour out her nose, lava would spew from her mouth, maybe flames would shoot out her ears. The image of herself made her laugh, or snort.

"What's funny?" Dr. Mills asked.

"That question is none of your business, Dr. Mills." If she didn't shut up she was really going to blow off steam and then she would cry. She was not going to do either, so she clamped her mind shut and put a smile across her face. And waited.

Sara did not want to think about all that had happened but her mind kept going through all the images of that night spent in the rain and the day spent in the blistering sun. At night she would wake up with her heart pounding and days were spent in a fog where she pretended to function by memory of previous events. The only time she felt normal was when she lay beside Grissom and he held her without talking, without asking questions. He just put his arms around her and stayed with her.

Dr. Mills poked at his papers and pulled out a single page. "Your mother lives in San Francisco. Have you told her of your kidnapping?" He looked satisfied, as if he had found a key to her reluctance to talk.

She stared at him with a cold glint in her eye. She had been seated across the table from people far more educated in the psychology of the mind than Dr. Mills and they had never cracked her thoughts and it wasn't going to happen today.

"Dr. Mills, my mother has dementia—brought on at an early age by repeated beatings by my father before she killed him. Telling her about my ordeal with Natalie Davis isn't going to help either of us."

"How do you feel about that?"

What she felt was an inner darkness lit by strange fires and haunted by fragments of thoughts, visions, and conversations. The only time in her life she had ever felt wanted or safe or half-way normal was when she curled next to Gil Grissom and listened to his soft, regular breathing, his warmth keeping her in the land of sanity.

Today, she shook her head. "I've gotten over that a long time ago," she lied. It came easily. "I'm ready to return to work—we both are. I get this big cast off in a week. Natalie is still in the hospital—I'm scheduled to attend her evaluation in a week. She's nuts—crazy—mentally ill, whatever the correct term is now." When she finished, she smiled again. It always seemed so normal to smile.

They both waited. He finally picked up his pen and wrote something on his paper. "I'm signing off on your leave. You can go back to work." He handed her a smaller slip of paper but held onto it for a second longer after her fingers closed around its edge. "Miss Sidle, if you ever need someone—someone to talk to—about this, please call me." On his face was a look of genuine concern.

Perhaps she had misjudged him, she thought, been unfair and prejudiced. But more than anything, she wanted out of this little office with its perfection of furnishings. Time almost stopped as he extended his hand. She took it, awkwardly, before turning to leave, keeping her back straight and tears out of her eyes as she got outside.

Once inside her car, tears gushed out of her eyes, mucus ran from her nose. She was imploding; her fist hit the steering wheel. She gulped for air, trying to extinguish the burning fury. A half-empty bottle of water was between the seats—sitting there for days if she remembered correctly. She swallowed its contents. She would not burn up today, or implode or explode; she would not become an erupting volcano.

She cranked the car and drove home. It was what she needed—who she needed was there. As she passed the park, she saw Grissom and Hank plodding along the path. She stopped at the curb and got out. The sun was warmer, the air smelled cleaner, there were a few flowers left from an early spring. Her fog lifted as Grissom's arm came up in a wave.

_A/N: Okay, bit of sweet smut--leave a review now! More reviews = next chapter quickly!_


	25. Chapter 25

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 25**

"We have to talk to Ecklie—or he has to talk to us," Grissom said as he was towel drying her hair after a shower which had become a complicated procedure with the cast on her arm. Then her hair was taking on its own life because with one useful hand she could not manage the technique of pulling her hair into a ponytail to keep it straight. And as good as Grissom was at drying her body, he had yet to master her hair.

She made a face and pulled the plastic cover from her arm. "I'm getting my hair cut."

He laughed at her obvious disregard of his news. "Did you see the letter from your mother?"

She nodded her head. "I didn't open it—she said she was mailing it." A frown puckered her forehead. "I can't imagine what's in it." Grissom handed her a hairbrush and disappeared for a minute returning with a white envelope.

He swapped the envelope for the brush. "I'll brush you hair while you read." He had no idea what her mother would write, but he did not want her to be alone when she read it.

They settled on the bed, Sara still wrapped in a white towel and Grissom holding a hair brush with a puzzled expression his face.

Sara's finger slid under the envelope's flap and she pulled out several folded pages. "She's written a lot," she said as she flipped the pages. Two pages were filled with neatly written lines with a date nearly a month old at the top of the first page. A third page was a simple legal form naming Sara as power of attorney. A fourth page had dates and events written on it, a calendar, Sara thought, before realizing it went back over her mother's life, a dated history. She began to read it aloud.

_My dear Sara, _

_Today I start this letter while my mind is clear and I can think about the future and remember much of the past. I know I have dementia, forgetfulness that will get worse. The doctor I saw yesterday tells me it is like a bruise in my brain that will get bigger and make me forget what to do and what I want to say. I came home and decided to write some things to you. _

_I wish we could know each other better. It has been difficult for us to be mother and daughter. I am enjoying retirement and the lady who stays with me every day helps me with the garden and flowers. We take walks every day and do a little work around the house. It is a good life and one I thank you for providing. _

_I remember so many things about you being a little girl. You were always a beautiful, good girl, and a smart one. I don't remember when we realized you were smarter than most little children, but one day you could put words together and read a sentence. After that, we would test you at the grocery store to see if you really knew letters and words. Your father would say it was because I let you watch television all the time. But I knew you were smart._

_(a second date)_

_I am so sorry we were not able to live together as you grew into a young woman. I cried for weeks when you were taken away but when I went to prison, I never wanted you to come to that place. I lost you there—but it was better to disappear from your life than to have you visit me and cry as the other children who came did. I always imagined you were playing and laughing or studying instead of spending an afternoon in a prison yard. Today, you make me so proud with what you are doing with your career. I have always been proud of you even when I did not say it._

_(a third date) _

_I know that I will not live long. Several years ago, the doctor told me I had congestive heart disease which is incurable, just as dementia. You will never know how much I appreciate all you are doing to keep me in the home I have known for fifteen years and with this group of women who are good friends. Don't be sad for me—I have never been happier in my life. My future is known—it is quiet and safe. My sweet daughter is doing well and now she will have money to do some things. I'm sorry I did not open those letters years ago—I do regret that. I hope you and Gil will be able to visit me soon. I enjoyed your last visit so much. _

_I ask God to grant happiness and a long life to you, Sara. I believe he will. _

_Your Mother _

Sara had stopped twice while reading the letter, held her breath for long seconds and then taken a deep breathe and continued. The last page of dates included her father's birth date and where he was buried, her brother's birth date as well as the date he died, names of several places the family had lived, and several other names and dates. Her mother had written beside two names "my mother" and "my father".

Grissom had forgotten his task of brushing her hair and had placed one hand on her arm. As she read, he had gently stroked her arm; several times he had kissed her shoulder or her neck.

"Why don't we go—before we return to work? We can leave tonight—cheap seat on a gambling flight—spend the night downtown and pick her up tomorrow." Grissom returned to brushing her hair, keeping his voice calm and steady. "We could take her out, maybe take her to a beach." As he finished, he rested his chin on her shoulder. "You love San Francisco—it may be awhile before we get several days together."

Her head nodded, so slightly he would have missed it from across the room. "I'll have to explain my cast—and my face. I—I didn't know about the heart failure."

"We can tell her it was a car accident—air bag hit your face."

She sat, wrapped in a towel, for a few minutes, looking at the papers in her hand. "You would go?"

"Yeah, I'll go—we'll have fun. We don't have to meet with Ecklie until we go back to work."

"You know what he's going to say—he's never liked me." She made a gruff laugh. "He can't fire me because of Natalie—at least I can thank her for that!"

Grissom chuckled. "No, he won't fire you—he knows you are good at what you do, but we have to change shifts. I told the sheriff I'd go to swing—he's happy with that. Maybe I can stabilize that shift." He went back to brushing her hair, something he would never be able to figure out. His own hair curled; hers tangled.

Sara called her mother. Grissom made flight reservations. Sara got her hair cut and styled. Grissom packed two small bags. And they boarded a flight filled with returning tourists; none too happy, Sara noted.

That night they checked into one of the largest and oldest hotels in San Francisco, its vaulted glass ceiling soaring above the lobby giving an illusion of open sky; Grissom insisted he had gotten a bargain by prepaying for two nights after an internet search. Whatever bargain he made, Sara noticed, was lost as soon as he peeled several bills from a wad in his pocket as he gave a note to the concierge. The room was as large as most apartments Sara had lived in—a huge bed with a dozen pillows, several pieces of furniture and chairs made their two bags appear as small islands in an ocean of taupe, brown, and cream. And if Grissom had thought the night would be a romantic one, he changed his mind after Sara fell asleep across the bed without changing her clothes.

"Sara," his attempt to wake her brought a couple of mumbles. He knew she was exhausted and getting little rest—insomnia in the middle of the night, a few hours of sleep before wakeful, restlessness brought her fully awake. He pulled back covers, took off her shoes and pants and crawled into bed with her. An unfamiliar apprehension scraped at an edge of his brain. In ten days, Sara had not recovered her normal sense of balance and she was skilled at hiding it; she was not verbalizing anything about the kidnapping—almost too calm, he thought. He wasn't sure how she had gotten the approval to return to work, but it was stuck on the refrigerator. There would be a hearing for Natalie Davis almost immediately after she returned to work; he worried about that, but Sara seemed to be unaffected, detached.

The letter from her mother had touched emotions for both of them putting into words a conversation that mother and daughter would never have. To Grissom, the letter was a plea; it had revealed a need for the two women to be together before Laura Sidle's mind progressed into dementia. He knew Sara would not ask for a medical leave—not after Natalie, not with this change coming in their work schedule.

He could have set the clock for three hours; that's almost as long as Sara would sleep. He knew she crept from their bed at home and tonight in a strange bed, it would be no different. He was learning; he propped her cast on a pillow, wrapped his arm underneath hers and laced his fingers together. She could not move without waking him up...

Sara was trapped. Grissom's arms were locked around her chest and back and if she moved at all, he would wake. He had done this before—if she got out of bed, he would know. She didn't remember going to sleep, just stretched on the bed and closed her eyes. She shifted very slightly; Grissom moved with her.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she whispered.

He grunted and came awake. "Come back to bed." He rolled and went back to sleep. She put a pillow next to him and went into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he found her at the window. She had stepped between drapes and the glass and stood with her head against the cool pane.

"Sara, come back to bed, honey." His hand slipped around her neck.

"I can't sleep, Gil. I'll just keep you from sleeping."

He frowned as he pulled her to him. "What about a shower?"

She sighed. "It's too much trouble—I'll wash my face." She smiled. "Or do I smell?"

"No, I just want an excuse to touch you—it will help you sleep better."

She took off her clothes and stood in the tub while Grissom used the hand-held shower. He never turned on the overhead light, keeping the room dim, as he washed her. She watched his strong hands as he lathered soap down her arm and across her breasts, held her broken arm away from her body as he sprayed a gentle mist over her body. Then she turned so he could wash her back. He was right; his gentle attention to her body, rinsing her with warm water followed by patting her dry did help her sleep. They did not make love but there was love around them—comfort, security, sanctuary. Grissom arranged pillows, pulled Sara close to his chest and recited a long sonnet from memory as Sara fell asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart.

Laura Sidle asked to go to a beach—a particular area she described with clarity to Sara and Grissom as they drove across the bay. Grissom realized Laura did not drive—had not done so in years—public transportation was how she had traveled in the city for twenty years. As they wound through the park with pine forests and flower filled meadows on either side of the narrow road, she talked of trips made to the beach more than thirty years in the past. She pointed out the epicenter of the 1906 earthquake where the earth shifted more than sixteen feet in an instant.

As they rounded a curve, she pointed to an up-thrust of land. "That's it! It hasn't changed since I came here in high school!"

Grissom drove to the northern tip of the national seashore to a beach named Heart's Desire. Laura promised warm water at the end of the road. When Sara thought they had taken a wrong turn—there had been only one place where a decision had been made—they came to the end of the road. Even thought Laura repeatedly said Sara had been to the beach many times as a small child, Sara had no memory of the place. Grissom opened the truck and passed a hat to each woman.

They both marveled at his thoughtfulness. "Where did you get all this?" Sara asked when he gathered more items in his arms.

His money to the concierge had been well spent. They had a small cooler filled with food and drinks, a blanket, three hats, even a tube of sunscreen and two towels.

"Like a Boy Scout—prepared!" He chuckled. Her mother headed down the cliff to the seashore. "Go! I'll bring this!" And Sara ran to catch up with her mother.

Gulls and shore birds sailed over their heads. Less than a dozen people were spread along the beach. Laura stopped at the top of the trail.

"Oh, Sara, it hasn't changed. Isn't it the most beautiful place?"

Sara had to agree. The ocean was calm with small green waves slowing rolling to the sand, turning on its edge before stretching back into the ocean.

"It is beautiful, Mom." They look at each other and grinned before both began a fast loping walk to the water. At some point they bent to remove their shoes and waved at Grissom who headed in their direction with the white cooler. He noticed their faces and caught the sound of laughter in the wind. For the first time in days, he knew the beach was a good idea. He removed his shoes, spread the blanket on the sand, and joined the two women at the shoreline.

Laura stepped into the water where tiny waves broke around her ankles. "It's warm—just as I remember."

The three walked for an hour in the water's edge, finding a few shells, watching as birds waded into tide pools, and little clumps of seaweed washed onto the sand. The cooler contained enough food for six hungry adults—thin slices of tomatoes, boiled eggs and three different cheeses covered salad greens, soft rolls, a container of potato salad, bottles of water, bottles of juice, oranges and grapes, and chocolate bars.

With a smile on her face, Laura said, "This is food for a king and his court!" She picked up one of the candy bars. "These are very good—do you mind if I eat this first?"

Grissom and Sara laughed. Sara realized it was the first time in her memory that she and her mother had enjoyed being together. Neither had talked about past events nor had they talked about the future.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! _


	26. Chapter 26

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 26**

As a young man, Grissom had been as fascinated by literature as by science. He could study and map every ripple on a mudflat and the invisible workings of wind and tides, collect samples of water and spend countless hours finding the microscopic organisms unseen by the naked eye. He could take a poem and memorize every word, greedy to learn the nuances of meaning, feelings and expressions of the author. In his love of Sara, he attempted to do the same—he studied her, carefully, discretely. Her hair, its texture when it curled and when she straightened it, when she used a cream or gel and when she didn't, amazed him. Her eyes—brown at first glance—one would think dark as chocolate, but on closer inspection, the brown became golden rays, and too often carried the weight of gold. She carried secrets behind her eyes, Grissom knew. Now, because he had examined and analyzed her for years, he recognized she was concealing something.

Tonight, as they lay in the semi-darkness of a hotel bed, he studied the face he loved. The smile on her face was one only he knew—he realized others thought they knew her smile—but here, in the intimacy of their foreplay, he saw the way her lips lifted, an expectant tease at the corners, a tantalizing yet sensitive curve that spread to her cheeks and her eyes. Within minutes of meeting her, he had known she was for him, listening and thinking and asking questions, with a passion as fierce as his own.

Tonight, she met his desire with an obsession that completely filled her mind and senses. She stroked his hair, kissed his eyes, moved her hand over his body for pleasure, and buried her nose against his skin. She seemed to want to inhale his spirit as well as his heart. He was reminded of the sea—she was liquid moving through his fingers as the waves of the ocean. In this bed with its soft sheets enfolding their bodies, each convinced, knew with certainty, their love was unique.

Much later, he came out of sleep to hear or feel some silent cry or movement beside him. He put out his arm and Sara pushed her face against his neck.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Under his hand, he felt her shake her head.

"Sara," he whispered. "We don't have to talk, honey." He felt her face, wet against his shoulder. "But don't do this alone—let me help you."

She nodded but silent tears washed from her eyes and soaked his shirt…

Good days followed their return from San Francisco. Sara's talk with Ecklie resulted in her move to swing shift and Grissom remained with the team. As she told him with a smile, she could use more sun in her life. And Ecklie knew Sara had mentored Greg; he had a new employee who needed the same careful, competent training. A few times Grissom managed to leave early and get a few hours of sleep with Sara—or do something else with her. Other times, her shift overlapped with his so they met for a meal or shared food in the break room.

While neither mentioned it, no one in the lab had said a word about their two year long relationship. No one other than Ecklie, that is.

Lying in bed one morning, Sara laughed as she told Grissom of the odd stares from some of the lab girls. "They are curious, but afraid to ask anything, I think."

Grissom chuckled. "Everyone is stunned into silence—they can't believe we were right under their noses and no one noticed." He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight. He had been doing that a lot lately—when she left him, when he arrived at home; the near loss of her continued to cause uneasiness deep inside.

"We should have a party," he said. "Invite everyone over here—let everyone see us together." He paused. "What do you think?"

"Yeah—we could do that," she agreed, but as days passed, the idea was forgotten as work and conflicting, often extended hours filled their time.

Natalie Davis' hearing was a quiet event. The woman sitting in the hearing room remained in a trance—catatonic, unable to respond to simple questions. She was returned to the hospital for more treatment, more medications. Grissom watched Sara—as everyone else did that day, but she showed no emotion as she answered questions about her memory of that night. Grissom lessened his worry but the heavy gold lines remained in Sara's eyes.

Sara seemed to disappear into the work of swing shift. Greg sought her out, or she found him. They had suffered an unspoken trauma within months of each other; she knew his beating had changed him. He watched for the effects of her kidnapping. Privately, he thought she had returned to work too soon.

On a rare day together, Sara and Grissom floated down the Colorado River in a canoe. There were more people on the river, fewer isolated beaches and rocky coves, but by paddling slowly, letting others pass by, they found an enclosure made by three boulders with a flat area no larger than a good size table top hidden between them. By pulling their canoe into its opening, tightly securing it to a large rock, they created a private space in the noon high sun and spread their blanket for lunch.

Grissom leaned against a warm flat rock and watched as Sara set out food—she talked about Ronnie and Greg's interest in old Vegas. And he saw his life—she held his time, she contained his past and his future. This is my center, he thought, with her, within her my desire has found its end. His hand motioned for her to join him before she had taken all the food from the cooler.

"I love you, Sara."

She looked up, surprise showing in her face. She grinned. "What brought on this declaration, Gilbert?" She teased, but she dropped the sandwich in her hand and moved to his side.

"I wanted you to know." He said, keeping his hands folded together, knowing a touch would set off a series of actions that they probably should not do on a river crowded with tourists. And when her cool lips touched his, he knew he would not stop with kissing her; his hand moved to her shirt and catching its hem, he pulled and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Is this a good idea?"

As an answer, he buried his face between her breasts. He managed to unsnap the front hook of her bra, kissed the freckled skin across her chest, and worked his way to her throat. His deep chuckle came seconds before he found her lips. "If you said no, I'd stop," he mumbled. His hands cradled her butt, searched for the zipper and snap on her khakis, and started pushing them off. "I love your butt," he whispered.

Sara could feel the warmth radiating from his groin against her bare thigh. He still wore the thin pants and shirt of cool, fast drying fabric, and she unfastened each small button and kissed his skin beneath it. She tasted heat and saltiness and soap. He shook his shirt from his shoulders and spread it behind her back.

Smoothing the shirt, he said, "There're rocks in the sand."

Sara felt nothing but his kisses as he touched the soft, sensual places of her body—along her ear, underneath her chin, each breast, at the crest of her hip, and her thighs.

"I want you, Sara—all of you," he whispered, and the way he said it, his eyes fixed on her face, sent a tremor through her. He thought she was cool and pulled his shirt around her shoulders as one would wrap a child, and kissed her again as his hand guided his erection into the damp folds of her body.

They made love in the sun, quietly, without haste, hearing only the wind against the rocks, the low splash of water against the canoe. As Grissom moved above her and whispered her name, Sara heard the hard sound of something against rock. She looked skyward and high above her head, she saw a big horn sheep standing on a narrow ledge. She closed her eyes letting passion take over her body, her muscles responded to the rhythmic power of orgasm, and moments later, she fell against the sand and rock strewn piece of earth.

Grissom smiled, touching her face with one hand, cradling her shoulder and back from the rough surface. He burrowed his face into her neck and breathed. For a moment, Sara felt she disappeared into his blood and bones. Opening her eyes, she searched for the sheep she had seen minutes before. Grissom lifted his head, noticed her eyes and followed her gaze.

"I saw a big horn sheep—I know I did."

He shifted his body, adjusted his pants, and pulled her tightly against his chest. He reached for his hat which had gotten a little mangled since it had been removed from his head and used it to shade his eyes, searching with her.

"Look," Sara pointed. "There it is—by the bush up there."

"Look again—she's got a baby."

Grissom reached for water and passed it to Sara. He folded his shirt and used it as a pillow for his head and motioned for Sara rest on him. "Are you cool?" He asked.

"No, it feels good." Sara stretched her naked legs into the sun and pulled on her panties. They heard several boats and laughter passed their hidden cove. Sara looked for her shirt. Maybe she should put it on, she thought, but left it at her feet before settling back on Grissom's chest.

Sara was tired. An easy day of paddling on the river—actually, she had done very little paddling—and she was as tired as if she had hauled a dozen canoes across log-jammed rapids. Grissom slept beside her as the sun eased its way across the slot of blue sky. Soon, they would have to pack up and drift down the river to make the pull-out time.

She struggled with exhaustion that came not from bone and muscle but from some hole inside that had been pulling, dragging her from the beauty of life. She knew it went back to that night and day in the desert, to what actually happened or to what she had dreamed, she could not be sure. She tried to close this pit but in the quietness, or when she was alone or at times when it caught her off guard, the great black hole yawned like a dark mouth of a cave. She could see herself, lost, frightened, and small against an altered landscape, on her hands and knees at its rim trying not to be sucked into darkness.

"Weird," she said as she shook her head and blinked her eyes to free herself from the image.

"You okay?" Grissom asked quietly.

"Yeah—fine," she told him.

His hand patted her hand. "We need to go." He sat up, raked a hand over his face, and shook out his shirt. He helped Sara pull her shirt over her head, and as he smoothed it over her body, he looked into her eyes. His breath caught for a few seconds. His hand cupped her chin. "It will be, honey."

She smiled, forcing the small, frightened girl to back away from the abyss.

_A/N: Thanks for reading--would love to read your comments! _


	27. Chapter 27

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 27**

When Greg and Grissom found the bees, and Grissom boxed the hive to study, Sara helped him by contacting local beekeepers and far-away researchers. Reading about Colony Collapse Disorder and the havoc wrecked on crops by bees dying by the millions provided reading when she could not sleep, which was often, especially as she waited for Grissom, listening for the garage door to open. Once he was home and in bed, she could sleep for a few hours without the troubling dreams of darkness and confusion.

Swing shift work kept her busy even when she was sleeping three hours a night. Finding the skeletal remains of a man after the implosion of a casino was an old puzzle with pieces gathered from a dozen sources, including Greg and Catherine's mother. As she worked on the case, Sara wanted to believe the hole in her psyche was gradually closing as she actually enjoyed finding the last clues of the mystery. Hodges would be several hours with his testing and she left the building to find Grissom.

He had worked every available daylight hour on his bee colony, excited to have a project that concerned insects and joined the ranks of dozens of bee enthusiasts who were working on the same problem. Sara hated bees—had for years—as she thought about the little creatures crawling around in the tiny hives and a queen surrounded by hundreds of other bees. She dressed in one of the white suits and fitted the netting around her head, found gloves to cover her hands, and taped the pants around her ankles; all the activity kept her from thinking about how she hated bees.

Once with Grissom, seeing his bare hands pull racks out of the box as the bees flew around them, she asked questions and with his encouragement, she pulled off a glove. Grissom said not to freak out as bees flew around her head and one bee crawled over her hand. Shoving apprehension aside, Sara watched as she felt the tiny wispy legs touch her skin.

"You know, maybe we should get married," he said.

She freaked, at first thinking he had not said what she heard, that she had misunderstood his words. The sting came within seconds. He grabbed her hand and began removing the stinger.

"So, what do you think—you know—about…"

Grissom had actually said the words "get married". To her. A subject the two had never discussed. A subject Sara avoided whenever she could.

"Yes—let's do it."

"Yeah?"

She giggled like a school girl. Had she really said "yes", she thought. He leaned to kiss her and the netting frames clinked. They both laughed.

"Did you just…"

He laughed, stepped away from the bee boxes, leading her with him. "I did—we should get married." His face became serious. "I love you. You love me—most people get married when that happens." He pulled the hat and netting from his head, did the same to her and kissed her. "Should I get on one knee?"

She giggled again. Somehow, she could not see—did not want to see—Gil Grissom on his knee proposing to her. "No, no—we'll do it." She kissed him, hugging him as tightly as he had been hugging her lately. Maybe the black hole was closing after all, she thought. The sun seemed brighter; the fragrance of flowers surrounding the tents touched her nose. She leaned against Grissom's shoulder.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine—really."

His arms held her; she was happy, he thought. The laughter he heard had been spontaneous, a natural laugh of joy. His hand slipped through her hair—it was less curly now that she could use both hands, he realized.

He pulled back, a grin on his face. "What made you do it?"

Puzzled, she frowned. "Say yes? I—I love you, Gil!"

He chuckled. "No, what made you take off the glove—I know you hate bees."

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she smiled. "I trust you," she whispered, "I really do." There was a minute when both were quiet before Sara giggled again. "What made you ask?"

"You took off your glove."

Hodges told Sara she looked like she was having a good day.

Catherine caught Grissom in a daydream, turning pages of a travel magazine he had picked up in the lobby. He was beginning to think a trip would be nice.

On his way home, he stopped at an all night florist. "I want flowers for—for an engagement."

The woman smiled, "Is it a surprise?"

"No—no, she said yes. Maybe not an engagement—to get married—she said yes."

"Wait right here." The woman disappeared for several minutes and returned with a long stem of orchids. "How does this look?"

"I'll take it."

The florist held up her hand. "Let me arrange this." She disappeared again, returning five minutes later with a bouquet of orchids and roses in shades of pink and green.

Grissom paid, thinking Sara would probably not like these flowers and he should have gotten something else. Jewelry—he gave himself a mental hand slap. That's what you give when you asked someone to marry you, he thought. They would go together, he decided, and find something she liked—a ring or necklace; he pulled into the garage.

After his unexpected proposal, she had been stunned into silence but driving home, she recognized this as a special occasion. She stopped for flowers and food and wine, but decided she wanted something better than wine. She knew what Grissom liked to drink and headed to the whisky section—a thirty-two year old Midleton caught her eye, not something he would drink regularly, but right for a special occasion, she thought.

Sara cleaned the house, showered and "sexed-up" as Grissom would say. She had put on the expensive red panties Grissom had given her after his sabbatical and pulled a silky black robe out of the closet. She lit candles, placed flowers in every room, including their bathroom, cut up cheese and fruit, and placed the whisky on the kitchen counter top. At some point, she realized she felt good—she had not thought about that night or the nightmares she had been having on a regular basis. She smiled, deciding she had backed away, closing the dark, black pit on the past.

Grissom opened the door, immediately sensing a difference, and when he stepped into the kitchen, there was Sara. He made some sound because she turned, smiling, something in her hand, one very long leg appeared pale against the dark robe she wore. He smiled.

Sara heard the back door open, reached for the bottle and turned, the robe falling away from her leg. Grissom stood still, smiling, a huge bouquet of flowers awkwardly held in his hand. She smiled.

The flowers were placed in water; he opened the bottle and took one small swallow before deciding the warm body standing beside him was more intoxicating than the whisky. And when kissing her, he decided the bed was the best place for doing what was next, he back-walked her into their bedroom, dropping the robe to the floor, and losing some of his clothing in an untidy trail from kitchen to bed.

The burning candles caused a hungry growl where food played no role—he whispered, "I love it when you do this."

Sara clearly heard his words, but was unsure of what "this" meant and before she could ask, his mouth was touching the skin of her chest, his hands were clasped just below her breasts, his thumbs were circling the very sensitive area where her breasts began to swell from her chest. And she thought she might be in the process of having an orgasm from his touch and smell, and he not removed her panties!

Just before she was overwhelmed with passion, as her belly rippled and as her breath quickened, she heard a chuckle and he backed away. Her eyes flew open as he pulled his shirt off and began to work on his pants. She brought her foot up to his stomach and slid it downward, wiggling her toes into the open zipper, and pushed against the fabric.

"Get them off!" She said, her voice sounded normal—calm, but the thrust of her foot moved his pants to his knees in one swift motion. She rose up enough to get her hands under the waistband of his boxers. She didn't care if they were completely off, just as long as she found what was being constricted within them. Her hands enclosed his very obvious, very hard erection.

She had acted so quickly, Grissom was taken by surprise and was struggling with his pants when her hands caught his penis. He gasped as those long fingers encircled him and before he could recover, she moved her lips to its end and gently, as a butterfly landing on a flower, she kissed him.

_A/N: Next chapter soon!_


	28. Chapter 28

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 28 **

Simon Rose had been trying to kill his wife for a decade and when he succeeded, swing shift got the assignment. Sara had seen this death in her dreams for years—sometimes the dream was her mother's blood, sometimes it was her father's blood, and recently the dream had been played out in a blistering desert or in a pouring rain. Doc Robbins' autopsy was one for the battered and abused wife textbooks and when Sara traced hospital records, the hole she thought was closing ripped open with such force she almost toppled in head first. But she backed away just in time.

She was tired of death being shoved into her face every day.

Sara was available when Grissom needed help with a murder scene; she wanted to be with him, the familiarity of working as his second set of eyes and hands was something she missed more than she would ever admit. It seemed a life line had been thrown to her.

The deaths of the couple—watching a movie together—one alive while the other was killed—hit like a gunshot blast to Sara's chest. She tried to close her eyes and erase the image of the dead woman lying by the sofa. A low hum vibrated in her ears.

Grissom was talking, explaining how victims were selected. She choked, tears sprang to her eyes. She had to leave. The sound of a hurricane wind howled deep inside her. She heard a sickening sound of a dull thud—a brutal twist of limbs, blood-spattered in a wide arc, eyes open, lips parted. Fingers twitched in a final goodbye. It was as real as if she had been standing in the house, witnessing the entire event.

_Over and over, Sara heard her mother's voice echoing around her, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"_ The black hole in her center whirled and twisted and sucked her inward.

A voice floated over her head. The images floated away. "You okay, Sara?" One of the patrolmen stood at the door of her vehicle.

She lifted her head from its position on the steering wheel, sweat was pouring over her face. "I'm fine—thanks—just hot, stuffy—in the house." She cranked the engine and turned the air conditioner to high. In the rearview mirror, she watched as Grissom headed across the street and disappeared between two houses…

The old movie played silently as Sara sat on the sofa, Hank at her side. She wasn't sure how she had managed the drive back to the lab—couldn't remember leaving the evidence she had collected—Greg had been there and sort of took over if she remembered correctly. He had given her a cup of coffee and talked about the FBI. The coffee had helped; listening to Greg had helped.

The deaths of the two women—one killed by her husband and a second killed by a stranger—felt like black shadows drifting between her eyes and the light, swimming past the corners of her eyes, out of sight. Sara knew ghosts were not the spirits of the dead, or undead, but her own projections of the living, of guilt, fear, failure, and mortality too great to be contained in the mind. She had hidden her ghosts for too long; they had followed her into the desert that night, followed her home, and, today, slammed against her as she tried to hide her fear—her terror—of events that played in her nightmares.

Sara had gotten home with Hank, put in the movie and let it play. There were too many thoughts crowding her brain—and then the tears came. Hot and stinging, not tears for herself, but tears for her mother, the haunting sadness of her mother's life, the years that had been slashed out of her life. She closed her eyes as her chest heaved. Sara had been ashamed of her mother—her parents—for so long that any good memories had been distorted and smudged by events of one night and for so long afterwards that she had forgotten bedtime stories, beach trips, coloring books.

Sara wasn't sure how long she sat on the couch; the movie had ended and Hank had moved to the floor. She undressed and got in the shower, telling herself hot water would melt away every ache. She would prepare food and have it ready for Grissom—he would have to come home at some point—even the FBI had to sleep, she thought. Seeing him, eating with him, just being with him made her mind change in a way that was always comforting.

She was toweling her hair when Hank barked softly and she heard the door open. Within minutes, he was standing in the bathroom, sweaty, peeling off his clothes. "You are so beautiful—naked and lovely! What a sight!" He kissed her lightly, leaning to her face. "Let me wash off the dirt and get in with me."

Because he was so sincere, and because the time in the shower was so intimate, she nodded, dropped the towel and stepped into the shower behind him. Soap already in his hand, Grissom was under the shower, excited about the case of the missing child. Lost in her thoughts, Sara had not been listening to his words and the sudden silence brought her back to reality.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Sorry. Tired, I guess."

"You've pulled a double," he said, providing an answer for her.

Sara smiled. "Yeah."

He changed the shower spray to one of gentle rain and pulled her into his arms, his hands massaging her back. "Let's go to bed, get some sleep. You'll feel better."

Standing skin to skin, chest to chest, she should have felt something other than the hollowness inside her belly. Turning off the water, reaching for a towel, he wrapped her into a cocoon of white with only her head, shoulders, and arms showing. He disappeared and returned with a glass of juice and a handful of cookies.

"Eat this—have you eaten all day?" He settled beside her.

Somehow she had pulled on her pajamas; Hank had gotten on the bed, looking expectantly at Grissom who chuckled.

"I didn't forget you," he said as he fed the dog a treat.

Sara ate the cookies, thankful she did not have to talk with her mouth full. Grissom picked up a book and opened it to a marked page. It was his thick Shakespeare book and he began to read one of her favorite stories—one of confused love, about Hero and Beatrice, Claudio and Benedick. His voice was sincere, smooth, reading the words from the page as easily as soft butter melted on toast.

Gil Grissom, her fiancé of—had it been a week, she thought. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen; his hair combed back in thick waves, more gray at his temple now than a few years ago. She frowned; perhaps being around her aged him quickly. He was older than she was—more than fifteen years her senior—but she never thought about his age in relation to her own. Her feet touched his underneath the covers. He wasn't much taller, five-feet-ten in his socks, precisely the right height to hold, to kiss, and be kissed.

"Are you listening to this?" He asked softly.

"Yes."

Grissom kissed her gently. Sara smiled; he was the best kisser of any man she had ever kissed. He closed the book, keeping one finger on the page he was reading.

"Have you thought about—you know—getting married—when—where?" He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "We could get married at the courthouse," he chuckled, "or at that place where…"

It made her laugh. "Don't even go there—fake flowers and bridesmaids protecting the bride—we'll go to the courthouse."

"You know, we could take a trip and come back married—see Italy or the pyramids or the rainforest. Spend a week in some fancy spa soaking in mud."

She laughed again trying to believe his words would make the dark pit in her stomach close.

He tucked covers around them, letting the book slide to the floor. He snuggled, tucking his head in the curve of her neck and shoulder. "You know, we've never talked about this—but I wouldn't be opposed to starting a family—we're not—I'm not too old—what do you think?"

His words were no more than a whisper but slammed into Sara with the force of a punch thrown in anger, and the ghosts of her past hurled into her vision, the hurt, the lost childhood, the body lying on the floor, flapped and screamed inside her skull, chasing her back to the yawning pit.

She must have made some response, an agreeable one or perhaps it was ambiguous, because Grissom grunted a satisfying sound and pulled her closer. Within minutes his breathing indicated he was asleep. Sara couldn't sleep—had not slept for more than a few hours at a time for weeks. She blamed it on her broken bones, on the change in shift, and missing Grissom.

Reality was the hollowness she felt in her gut. It kept her from sleeping, kept her confused about everything in her life. No, she thought, she wasn't confused about loving Gil Grissom—she knew that was true and safe. But everything else—which meant her work, her life of the past decade, her mother, what she knew about her father—was boiling in a confused caldron of unrest and stress waiting to flood into her life.

Tears welled into her eyes. Grissom thought the world was perfect; not the world, but their lives. Marriage, starting a family—tears ran from her eyes to touch her ears—she was all but certain that would not happen. Her mother's health history was unknown but when Sara learned of the four miscarriages, she was convinced her mother had used the drug, diethylstilbestrol. She would have no babies.

Sara closed her eyes and willed her mind to think of something else. For a while she had not felt like herself, or the self she remembered. The pit had always been with her—as long as she could remember, the fear of spiraling down until she was nobody, a forgotten stick on the side of life's highway. But the pit opened and closed; it wasn't the whole of what was happening to her. In her mind there was fog. She had always been good at multitasking and for weeks she had found it difficult to perform one thing without effort. If she could sit in the sun, smell flowers, watch the ocean, get away from death and dying, crime and evil, she thought she might be able to close the pit, clear the fog, and resume her life.

In time, sleep came. For a few hours. Restless, confused, disturbed. Dark and frightening dreams.

_A/N: Depressing, I know, but this is the story of why Sara left so suddenly. Thanks for reading. _


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Working on the last chapters--probably 34-35 instead of the original 32. Review!!_

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 29**

Hillside, Arizona. Sara had heard Grissom say he was driving Jack Malone to Hillside, Arizona. He had tucked covers around her, given her a kiss, and she had gone back to sleep for awhile. Hank was curled around her feet. A dream woke her up—one of those replaying of memories where actual events were tangled up with imaginary ones. She passed a hand over her face and tried to slow the rush of blood thundering in her ears. She stared at the ceiling and pushed the dream back into the black opening in her belly. If she thought about other things—a parachute, white and gossamer—floating quietly out of the sky, or a sailboat with a giant sail billowing in the wind.

She got out of bed, opened the blinds to the sun, and felt Hank against her knee. Quickly, she changed clothes and took the dog to the park. She heard birds chirping and traffic moving, children playing in the playground, and a man trimming bushes. But there was a black screen that seemed to separate her brain and she kept trying to work her consciousness around this partition yet every time she thought she was near the end, it stretched ahead of her. She needed to rest, to sleep for hours without waking from bad dreams of the dead and dying, blood and screams of terror. At the park, she sat on a bench trying to concentrate on other things and found herself counting leaves on a tree—she thought she might be going crazy.

Sara left Hank at the sitter's and managed to dress for work; she made the bed, washed dishes, and took out the trash. Surprise showed on her face when the garage door lifted and Grissom pulled in. He grinned.

"You okay, honey?" He hopped out of the lab's SUV.

"I am." She smiled. "Ready for work—are you home for the day?"

He hugged her. "You sure you're okay? You're not sleeping much."

"I'm doing okay—adjusting."

His arm wrapped around her. "I'm heading to New York—going with bones from Arizona and evidence we've gathered. Malone's flown ahead—and I'm leaving later today." He stopped in the kitchen, kissing her again. "You going to be okay—I'll be back tomorrow, next day at the latest."

Grissom hooked a foot around a chair and scooted it from the table, sat down and pulled her into another chair. He reached over and placed his hands around hers. The warmth and touch sustained her, gave her unexpected comfort. The hollow pit inside her wanted to close; she backed away from its edge. The black screen in her brain lifted and light flooded inside.

She smiled. "I'm fine—really, I am. After working nights for so long, it's hard to get readjusted to more day light—but I am—Hank and I stayed a long time in the park." She didn't tell the complete truth—she sat on a bench for over an hour while Hank lay at her feet, appearing almost as despondent as she felt.

Grissom kept her hands in his and kissed her again. "I'll be back before I'm missed—drop me at the airport on your way to work?" He asked.

She nodded, smiling.

One way to avoid sleep—or insomnia—was to work; after Sara told Grissom how much he would be missed and left him at the airport, she worked for twenty hours. By the time Greg checked on her and brought a sandwich from the vegetarian place in the mall, she had checked and filed twelve closed cases of swing shift, gathered evidence into boxes for four other cases, and was organizing information for an open case left on Grissom's desk.

"Aren't you supposed to be at home?" Greg asked.

Sara rubbed her eyes and yawned. "Yeah—headed there now. I'll be back in a few hours."

Her friend walked her to Grissom's vehicle. "Hey," he laughed, "driving the big man's truck! Must be a perk of being his girlfriend!"

She laughed, elbowing him as she opened the door. She missed working with Greg almost as much as she missed Grissom.

When Sara woke, she gazed at the edges of bright light around the window. It took a full minute for her to realize Grissom has not been to bed before remembering he was in New York City. They had talked for an hour before his soothing voice had heard her yawning response to a question and he had chuckled as he said "Good night".

The swing shift assignments were extremely easy for the next eight hours. Sara decided Ronnie was becoming a quick learner, her questions were more thoughtful—or Sara was growing used to the constant prattle coming from the girl's mouth. By midnight Sara welcomed the quiet drive home and picking up Hank, she knew it would be hours before she slept. She had heard from Grissom early in her shift when he gave her an arrival time for the next day. She pushed buttons and all four windows opened to the night air…

Grissom knew he was witnessing a change in Sara; he knew it was a downward spiral of her spirit and soul, and yet she allowed no discussion of herself. He had tried a dozen ways to make her speak of her feelings, her thoughts, her lack of sleep, her constant restlessness that she tried so hard to keep hidden yet was in full view. He wanted to talk with her, to say she—they will be fine, this time will pass but she refused further discussion with her eyes. He had tried to treat her moods with extra thoughtfulness—bringing her food, even calling Greg to check on her while he was in New York City. Greg had also noticed a change, he told Grissom, adding it had taken a long time before he felt safe again.

Very subtle changes occurred in their home; they loved each other, touched each other in silence. Sitting together one afternoon, an ankle overlapping an ankle, his hand touched hers. She leaned against his shoulder and placed her hand over his heart. Her finger worked its way between buttons. She took his hand, so softly he felt it as the kiss of moths. Her face lifted, her eyes looked at his and without words, she led him into their bedroom.

Later, much later, Grissom would realize this was the last passionate time they would spend in this bed for many weeks. And Sara was passionate, fiercely seeking pleasure, as she kissed him, made moves to pleasure him, swept them both into a warm sea. He attempted to tell her that she was his life; everything he had done had led him to this moment, his heart beat against hers.

"This is where I am meant to be," he said. "Since my life began, I have been coming to you—we are here, we are now—everything else is running elsewhere." He held her against his shoulder and felt the wetness of her tears. His hand combed through her hair, feeling the pulse of her blood, and tried to pull out the inaccessible thoughts in her brain.

He whispered, "You are safe, Sara."

As she dressed for work, he thought she was better than she had been in weeks. She laughed at his dull joke and walked Hank to the sitter's as he finished dressing. He glanced around their home—Sara had made the bed, cleaned the kitchen, and taken out the trash. He met her half-way and they drove to work together. He told a story of Hodges attempting to flirt with Wendy; her sympathy went to Hodges.

Grissom's desk was buried in paperwork and Sara disappeared with Ronnie. Hours later, after a mulated body had been pulled from a dumpster and Sara had climbed in and out of a dozen other dumpsters looking for body parts, she tossed her boots into the trash, so tired exhaustion seemed to seep from her pores. She knew if she did not sleep soon her mind would collapse into a puddle of muck.

Ronnie appeared at the doorway, announcing a new scene, "425" she said.

The house was wrecked, blood pooled on the floor and trailed out the door. Kim Jimenez with a knife in her back was the last memory Sara would have of the actual scene. That's all she remembered. In a blinding flash, she was a child, Kim and Adam Jimenez morphed into her father and mother, the yelling, the blood, the shouting of strangers and that well-hidden hole in her gut ripped wide open. She did not know how she got back to the lab. The gapping black pit had opened beneath her feet and she was spiraling downward, hands trying to grab anything—Grissom—she had to find the one person who could pull her out, extend an arm to safety.

The images faded once she was inside the lab; the coolness of the building seemed to work on her brain, giving her time to rest for a few minutes. She needed to talk to Grissom, tell him she needed some time away, a vacation for both of them, to take them away from this imploding madness in her brain. She got to the door of his office; he was so busy, stacks of folders on his desk. He glanced up, waved his hand.

She turned. She knew she was not herself, had not felt like her old self in weeks. She wanted to pull away, hide somewhere until she could work through the miasma in her brain. There was so much work—his shift was already short one because of her move—that he would never agree to leave now. If she admitted to this mysterious ailment—this cavity that dwelled in her belly and opened and closed with amazing speed—she would be thrown into a padded cell.

Mandy caught up with her in the hall, broke into her thoughts, saying something about a fingerprint on a tube. When Sara reminded her it was not her case but Catherine's, Mandy said: "Marlon West."

_A/N: Please review--we have added to this story so the end is not the end--so read, review! Thanks to all who do!_


	30. Chapter 30

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 30**

Marlon West. The name cleared her head. One of the few unresolved cases of grave shift—Sara and Nick had long ago stopped debating who had actually killed Stacy Vollmer but neither had forgotten Hannah and Marlon West.

"I want this case," Sara said.

Catherine and Nick looked at Grissom who said, "The one that got away?"

"We're not supposed to let them get away, right?"

In her voice, Grissom heard excitement for the first time in days, the confident Sara Sidle he had known for years. "Okay, I'll see if I can clear it with Ecklie. Catherine has to supervise, though. You report to her."

Sara and Brass found Marlon in a chemistry classroom; they also found Hannah.

Kira Dellinger's boyfriend was located after a car accident sent him to the hospital and GHB was found in both of them—Nick opened the evidence box for the lubricant tube. A tooth fragment, a mold of Marlon's teeth, and photographs from a _Friends Agenda_ page led Nick and Sara back to Hannah West.

Hannah had been there when her brother got into a fight. Hannah had picked something up from the ground after the flight. Hannah taught chemistry.

The layout room was quiet as Sara worked with the tooth fragment and the mold of Marlon's mouth. Something wasn't quite as it should be; she looked at it with the magnifying glass.

"What are you doing?" Grissom had come in so quietly she had not noticed him until he spoke.

She showed him the tooth, the photograph and explained her theory. "I think Hannah picked up the tooth from a fight that Marlon had earlier in the evening. And I think she planted it on Kira." Once she said it, Sara realized how bizarre it sounded. "That's crazy."

"It's possible," Grissom said.

When she spoke, he heard the resignation, the sadness returning. "This kid is spinning me in circles again."

Grissom wanted her off this case. He had thought her moment of enthusiasm would punch a hole in the despondency he had seen in recent weeks.

"You know, Sara, some cases, some suspects can get under your skin. Like this tooth. But you can't let it make you feel bad. If you want, we can put Nick on this."

"No, no, I—um—I need to finish this case. I'll be okay."

"Okay."

Sara bit her lip, determination etched into her forehead. She wanted to close this case—two cases with two suspects—and evidence before her was not going to solve either. She raked her fingers across her eyes and rubbed vigorously. Once she thought she had a mission for crime solving, but she wasn't even feeling that any more. What she felt was an inner darkness with haunted scraps of thoughts and vague recollections of images. The only time she felt safe was with Grissom, curled under blankets next to him in bed.

She needed to talk with Hannah West, convince the girl her brother was going to jail for a long time. Hannah said she loved her brother—Sara asked for Hannah to meet her at the police department. Sara's mind swarmed with what a normal person would do—Hannah was not normal.

The interview did not go well—Sara's scenario of Hannah's role in Kira's death brought a calm response. "You don't expect me to confess to something I didn't do?"

Hannah's voice didn't sound combative or antagonistic as she recited her knowledge of Sara's kidnapping.

Sara interrupted, "Stop it, Hannah." The girl continued. "Answer the question!" Sara's hand hit the table, frustration and irritation overwhelming her ability to think. She left the interview room in anger.

Grissom stepped into the hallway. "I'm worried about you."

"That just makes this worse. I—I can't talk about this right now. I can't." She left him and Hannah, managing to get outside where she could breathe real air. The interview had blown up from a spark to a conflagration and Grissom had been there to witness all of it, to witness her own fright and desperation and weakness.

In the lab, Ronnie met her and babbled something about getting a woman to a shelter. Sara realized she meant the stabbing victim. Sara said, "She won't stay" and kept walking. She needed sleep, or at least time to close her eyes and think.

At home, she showered, wrapped herself in a blanket and slept for an hour on the sofa. By the time Grissom arrived, she was ready to leave. Brass had promised to meet her to interview Marlon, she explained. "We're hoping for a break—get Hannah and Marlon to talk." She hugged and kissed Grissom, promising to see him later. His hand reached out to her as she left.

By noon, Sara and Brass convinced Marlon to wear a wire but got nothing from Hannah. She went to Grissom's office to apologize, for leaving so abruptly this morning, for refusing his help with interviewing Hannah, to explain her behavior, but her cell phone rang. Marlon died. Part of Sara died with the boy. She had pushed too hard and now she would never know. Death became an admission of guilt.

The pit became a cavernous hole in her belly and threatened to implode, explode, turning her body inside out with bones melting and fires burning her skin. In a vacant interview room, she sat in the cool darkness and tried to clear her mind. She would be the one to tell Hannah about Marlon.

Hannah made a sarcastic laugh on meeting her again. When Sara handed her the photograph of Marlon, Hannah was skeptical. Sara's words were cruel, heartless as the truth dawned on the girl, and when she fell to the ground, Sara stayed with her as her screams turned to cries of anguish. Sara eventually got her to the college's health clinic, explained the circumstances of Marlon's death to the nurse and left.

In her mind, Sara knew Hannah West would bounce back into the world with deceit and manipulation, exploiting those around her; in her heart she wished for a different outcome.

She remained in her vehicle a long time. She knew she had to leave—she had to leave the lab, Las Vegas, the desert, her home with Grissom if she hoped to climb out of the black abyss of misery that had inched out to claim her soul. She found paper and began a letter—she did not know where she was going but she knew she had to leave.

She drove to the county's personnel office and filled out papers requesting immediate leave—she left blank the space for a return date. She wasn't sure when she would return or what she called this—maybe the end of her career. Ecklie would get her paperwork tomorrow; at least she would not have to see him face-to-face. She drove back to the lab, removed her personal items from the vehicle and turned in keys to the attendant. The man had always been kind to her—she smiled at his greeting.

Gil Grissom, the most beautiful person she had ever known, waited for her at the end of the hall. He looked worried—perhaps it was her own worries reflected in his face. She kissed him, pulling his face to hers, feeling his surprise as she released him. She gave a slight nod, as if to agree with his thoughts, and walked away. In the locker room, it took a few minutes to remove her name from her vest—she wasn't coming back any time soon and Ronnie could use the vest.

Taking one long glance in her locker, she closed its door and left. She pulled the letter she had written out of her pocket as she approached Judy's desk.

"Do you have an envelope, Judy?" She asked. And getting a new white one, she folded the paper and placed it inside. She wrote Grissom's name on the front. "Would you give this to Grissom, please? No hurry." When Judy took the envelope, Sara added, "Thanks."

There were always cabs near the lab and within seconds Sara was inside one of the yellow cars.

"Address?" The driver had to ask her twice.

It took Grissom a minute before he could move—Sara's kiss, in front of Hodges had stunned him into inaction. Hodges had stumbled over his words before continuing his explanation of his findings.

"Wait—Hodges, stop. I'll be back." Grissom left the tech and followed Sara. His office—empty. Break room—no Sara. Layout room—Nick looked up.

Grissom asked, "Have you seen Sara?"

Nick shook his head, "Not recently—you know the West boy died?"

"Marlon West? In custody?"

"Yeah. Brass said Sara was there—she said she would tell his sister."

"Oh, no," Grissom turned to leave. "If you see her…" Nick nodded, worried.

At the reception desk, Judy handed him an envelope, answering his question with "She left a few minutes ago, sir, but she did leave something for you."

Reading the letter in a state of disbelief, he realized how well Sara had covered her emotional turmoil; trauma and pain that started in childhood had caught her in the desert. This was his fault, he realized. He should have taken more time—insisted she continue with counseling, taken a trip to sunshine and warmth—gotten married.

He punched a number on his phone and listened as it rolled immediately to her recorded voice saying "leave a message." He left the building. She had to be at home—he tried to trace her steps since she left the house earlier in the day. He called Jim Brass.

He called Catherine. "I'm taking off, Catherine. A few days…" She broke in with a question. "Her vest? Catherine, I'm heading home—Sara's not—she's not well. I'll call you back." He pressed his foot against the accelerator.

Inside the house, he called her name, realizing he sounded harsh. "Sara!" He called, softer, "Sara, honey!" Her black jacket was flung over a chair.

In the bedroom, he found her…

_A/N: It's our story and we honestly do not think Sara left town after the cab ride! We are going to post another chapter later, but away for a long fun weekend (think music--New Orleans!!)--enjoy, we will return--send a review our way! _


	31. Chapter 31

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 31**

Sara's eyelids felt they had been sewn shut and when she forced them open, something wavy floated in front of her face. Slowly, her vision cleared and she recognized Grissom's face. He leaned closer and smoothed fingers across her cheek before kissing her.

"Hey, it's about time you woke up."

Confused, she looked around. The room was dark; she was lying in bed. Her hand touched her neck and she realized she was wearing a tee shirt that was too big. When she tried to sit up, she fell back on the pillow, objects swimming before her eyes.

Grissom sat on the bed. "You just rest and let me take care of you."

Her throat felt raw. Her voice was raspy when she asked "What happened?"

He lifted a glass from the bedside table and held a straw to her lips. "Take a sip. You're a little groggy. Yesterday, I called a doctor—friend of Doc Robbins—and he gave you a shot to help you sleep for a while. I'm here—I'm not going anywhere."

She noticed a chair pulled beside the bed. "What happened?"

He rubbed her arm, a shadow drifted across his face. "We'll talk later—you need to rest."

"How did I get here?" Panic showed in her eyes. Am I losing my mind, she thought; is this how it begins?

Grissom must have noticed. He leaned over her face and kissed her again. "You're going to be fine, honey. Why don't you tell me what you remember and we'll piece some things together."

"I wrote you a letter—I have to leave, Gil. I'm…" The words would not form in her brain. She ached all over, felt empty inside, as if someone had beaten her up. She could not remember the events of the day before. "I—I think I'm losing my mind."

"Why?" Grissom's voice was so soft, so gentle, as if he were speaking to a small child.

"I can't remember—bad things—they come at me like a storm…" She looked at him with dark, frightened eyes. "Marlon West died. I—I told Hannah—I saw—I saw," she stopped talking and wiped tears from her eyes. "How did I get to bed?"

Grissom had taken her hands. "You and I did it, honey. I found you on the sofa and you couldn't talk. We got you to bed and I called Doc Robbins who called a friend. He came over and after we talked—he checked you for bumps on your head—I told him you had not been sleeping. So he gave you a shot to help you sleep." He checked the clock. "You've been sleeping for nearly twenty hours."

She closed her eyes and her words tumbled out, "I've been in a funk for some time now. I keep dreaming about the day my father died—about my mother, and sometimes it's me, not my mom." Tears seeped from her eyes. "It's my fault, Gil. She was going to cook something else and I wanted a sandwich. So she made us a sandwich and my father came in—I guess he was home early. You know what's funny—I don't even know what my dad did or where he worked—he just walked in the door and we were sitting there eating our white bread tuna sandwiches." She swiped again at her eyes. "He was shouting at us—he grabbed my mom and threw her against the door and turned around and grabbed my arm." She wiped her eyes. "I dropped my sandwich," her voice choked. "And my mom—she—she hit him with something—it was like I was watching a movie in slow motion—the blood was everywhere—and the screaming wouldn't stop."

Grissom tucked the covers around her, stretched beside her on the bed, and wrapped his arm across her chest and to her back. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry—I'm so sorry. The human mind is an amazing thing. It protects us from ourselves in mysterious ways. Sometimes when pain is too great, too heavy, we have to give in to it, let it knock us down and once we hit bottom, we rest in a quiet place, the pain eases, and we come right back."

His hand came to Sara's chin. "Look at me, honey." She opened her eyes. "I talked to Kris this morning—and your mother. She's fine, talked about our trip to the beach. They think—we think—it would be a good idea for you to visit your mother for a while. Kris said you could stay with them or there's a little bed and breakfast down the street—I got the number."

Sara rolled to her side. "I'm afraid, Gil. I'm afraid I'm losing my mind—there's so much…"

"What are you scared of, Sara?"

Tears swam in her eyes and overflowed to her face. Images formed and disappeared. She could not look at Grissom.

"Talk to me, honey. Please. I need to know why you are so afraid."

When he kissed her wet cheeks, she opened her mouth and words fell from her lips, a torrent that surged and flooded and kept nothing back. "I'm scared that no matter what I do, how hard I study, how hard I work, I'll never have a normal life because I'm—I'm not normal—I'll go crazy one day and kill someone like my mother did. I'll kill someone I love! I can't have—I have this—this defect from medication my mother took—when I went to the doctor and she ran all these tests. I—I didn't know—but then my mother said she had miscarriages before she had me and I know she must have taken this drug. It's my fault—all of it—all of it." Tears gushed out of her eyes and mucus ran from her nose. She covered her face with both hands as she seemed to free-fall into a great empty hole.

Grissom turned her around to face him and pressed her face against his shirt. "Sara, it's not your fault—it's not your fault your father was a drunk and abusive. It's not your fault your mother killed him or what medication your mother took." Some of her words confused him, but he continued, "We may never know what happened between your parents, but I know that whatever it was isn't going to happen to you—to us."

Sara sobbed into his shirt. "But how? Abuse goes in circles—what if…"

Grissom's voice was so firm she opened her eyes to look at him. "Sara, you are not your mother. You are unique, truly one of a kind. You might not think so, but you are grieving—it doesn't feel like grief, but I think it is. All of your life you've managed to keep going, even as a little girl, you studied, you succeeded—you and I are together and love each other. But somehow, that night in the desert made you remember feelings you had when your father died, when your mother was taken from you. It's grief—like a splinter that you don't even know you have but it festers so deep that it gets into your soul—you are hurting but you don't know why."

His words had caused a peaceful quietness to settle into Sara's brain. For the first time in weeks, she thought she might not be going crazy.

"You know what else I think?"

"What?"

"Us—part of this is about the two of us. We're making a life together and its—its scary to think we can love someone so much we'd kill for that person. I could have killed Natalie for you and thought nothing of it. Hannah West killed for her brother—a very perverted love. Your mother killed for you, Sara—to protect you. For years you wanted to know your mother—the way a daughter is supposed to know and love a mother. But that day never came." He placed a palm to her cheek. "Until now. Go visit your mother, get to know her, love her." He kissed her lips and whispered. "I'll stay here, keep Hank company—you need some time in the warm sun of San Francisco."

Sara couldn't seem to control the tears in her eyes. "What about us, Gil? I—I don't want to lose this."

He smiled. "We are not losing anything," his voice teased, "we could get married before you leave."

She tried to laugh but it came out as a hiccup. "I've already said yes, but now I'm saying 'let's wait'—I want to feel good when I get married, have strength to actually go through it—not fall apart and have no memory of it."

For two days she stayed in bed and slept—a lot. Grissom stayed at home, worked quietly in his office, brought food to the bed or walked with her to the table. She showered with him sitting in the bathroom and holding a towel as she stepped out. He would slip into bed and keep her warm and recite sonnets and stories to her until she slept again. Once or twice she woke to find him sleeping beside her but she no longer stayed awake in fear of her dreams.

Slowly, gradually, as the hours passed, she stayed awake for longer periods and walked around their house. Grissom noticed how she picked up and handled nearly everything in the house, as if she were memorizing where it was, the feel of it, how it looked in its place. He knew she was preparing to leave him—not him, he corrected himself—she was going to visit her mother. She reserved a room at the bed and breakfast for two weeks.

The third morning when she walked Hank to the park, Grissom knew she was getting ready to leave. She was stronger, she was sleeping longer, and the haunted look was fading from her eyes. Ecklie called to say her leave had been granted as "family medical leave"—she took one month. Four weeks, Grissom thought, thirty days.

In the afternoon, they walked slowly to the park. Hank took advantage of their change in pace and stretched his leash to smell every bush or object along their path. Grissom talked about national news and new casinos until his one-sided conversation lagged and their walk was no more than a lazy amble. He kept an eye on Sara hoping for some glimmer of her former liveliness, but she continued to be gripped by a pensive mood.

Hank was unleashed in the dog park and exhibited his usual restraint until the gate was closed and then took off running in circles, halting only to mark territory in the way of male dogs.

Grissom and Sara leaned against the fence; she laced fingers with his. "I'm going tomorrow, Gil. I checked available seats—I can fly out mid-afternoon." Her hand covered their clutched hands. "I need to do this, Gil. I need to know my mother—not the past—but now. I think she's always been with me but as a mystery. I'm not sure if it was almost dying out in the desert or if it started before that—maybe when I realized I was happy for the first time in my life—that I realized I needed to know my mother. You do understand—I'm not leaving you."

Grissom listened to her words and smiled; silently they stood shoulder to shoulder and watched their dog play. He would not say how much she would be missed, how empty his life would be in her absence. He wanted her happiness to return.

"I'll fly out—or drive your car if you like—I think your mom would enjoy seeing places outside the city." His arm wrapped around her waist.

Her head rested about his shoulder and he felt her sigh. For the first time in weeks, he recognized it as a sigh of relief, free from anxiety and pain.

Sara packed lightly—a few shirts, several pairs of jeans, personal items—because she insisted she would return in two weeks. Grissom had doubts; she needed longer than two weeks to recover, to get to know her mother, and her mother's heart was failing. Dementia would not take Laura Sidle's mind before heart failure took her life.

_A/N: We will be back with the final chapters after the weekend--Review! Thanks so much for reading!_


	32. Chapter 32

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 32**

From the small window of the jet, Sara watched the city she had known for nearly a decade disappear below her, sunlight dotting and splashing the royalty of casinos on the strip as miles of houses appeared to pay homage . Words had been difficult between them as she packed her bag and the ride to the airport had been silent. Only at the airport did she and Grissom talk, over talked each other, trying to say words of goodbye.

"I'll come—I'll be there in a few days."

"I'll call when I land."

"Rent a car."

She shook her head. "No, not yet—I might later."

"Sara," he paused, touching her arm just before she leaned into his chest. "You know I love you."

She nodded. "I need to go."

"I know."

The cab stopped in front of a house surrounded by a lush garden with vines of flowers covering the fence and porch. The house, pale as lemonade and made of stucco, looked more fairy tale than business but a small sign on the fence announced "vacancy". Sara thought she had been catapulted into a new world from the forced, artificial landscape of Las Vegas.

The owner of the bed and breakfast showed her two rooms, one faced the street and had a high four post bed and ivory colored drapes in peach and green. The second room suited Sara; its pale color, almost sparsely furnished space, seemed peaceful to her. It was on the second floor with tall windows that opened to the west and, as the owner pointed out, provided a sliver view of the ocean. The simple iron bed was decorated with several colorful pillows; a tall chest, a desk, and two chairs completed the room's furnishings. Two doors—one opened to a porch and stairs to the back yard, the other to a small bathroom.

"This is the only room with its own entrance, and it is quiet back here."

Sara had already decided she could rest in this simple room and she was so tired. Bone and muscle had not been taxed but the hole inside had been pulling and dragging, weighing her down with darkness. Since she had left the lab, she had tried talking to Grissom, tried thinking herself free of the murky fog in her mind.

The hole that had opened in her was deeper in scope and significance, a Pandora's Box of questions about her life, her father, her mother, an uncle she never knew; her thoughts turned in an endless loop of death, dying, loneliness and misery she could not escape. She stretched across the bed and smelled the faint scent of floral disinfect—later, she thought, she would buy a new pillow, at least one pillow.

The room, its door opened to the small porch, was quiet. Sara listened for any sound before she heard faint movement somewhere in the house. She strained to hear sounds of traffic or wind, and finally heard a distant chirping of birds. A yawn suddenly overtook her; she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time. She had called Grissom from the airport; he had sounded concerned, hesitant, until she assured him she knew she was doing the right thing. She sounded more confident than she was.

Her mother knew she was coming—or Sara had talked with her mother twice, saying she was coming to visit for a few days. Sara was not sure her mother remembered either conversation. Her eyelids were heavy and she grabbed a pillow, forcing it into a more submissive shape before she sighed and closed her eyes. If she could sleep, she thought, the pit in her belly would not seem so deep or frightening or black…

The vibration in her hand woke her, confused; in an unfamiliar darkness, it took a few seconds for her to remember where she was.

"Sara," she croaked, clearing her throat, before repeating her name.

"Are you okay?"

She recognized Grissom's voice. "I'm fine—I've been asleep." She fumbled for the bedside lamp. "I fell asleep hours ago. What time is it?"

He told her the time, nearly midnight, and he was driving to work. "I've missed you," he whispered.

Sara settled against the colored pillows. "I've missed you," she laughed, quietly. "I was so tired when I got here—the room is great. It's quiet here." She told him of her ocean view and the small porch, the jungle-looking back yard and the colorful pillows. "Come when you can," she almost pleaded. He promised "Soon."

Afterwards, she changed her clothes, curled under the covers, and, surprising herself, drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, in a small house filled with women, Sara desperately hoped the pit causing the emotional blackness that threatened to take her soul would begin to close. They expected her for breakfast—her message of a late arrival the night before had been related by her mother—and even though she had eaten a muffin at the bed and breakfast, she ate again with her mother's friends. Her welcome was one fitting a princess and, quietly, in the calm routine of their household on a Sunday, Sara learned something about each woman, told to her by another.

Peggy had been married only six months when her husband was killed in a building collapse nearly four decades ago. She had been found sitting in the wreckage unable to respond and remained catatonic for two years. In her good moments, she could describe her lavish wedding and regale everyone with stories of her brief marriage. In her bad ones, she retreated into silence. Becky and Dottie had lost children, a house fire and a massive highway accident, that led to hospitalization. Brenda, like Laura, had killed an abusive husband, and Sandy, the youngest of the group, had been the only survivor when her family had been killed in a home invasion when she was thirteen. Their lives reminded Sara of a child's story of broken toys.

Their schedules, the daily chores, their work in the garment factory, was a routine that kept their lives as normal as possible. And, Sara noticed, they gave each other assistance—when Peggy talked about her husband, the others listened to a story they had heard a thousand times. When Sara's mother forgot a word or stopped in mid-sentence, one of the others provided the word or completed the sentence. Sara began to understand how this household functioned.

She also realized her mother was very ill…

In Las Vegas, it was a bright Sunday when Grissom rolled out of bed, pulled on clothes, and walked Hank. He had managed to sleep after fitful hours of trying to come to terms with Sara's absence. In their dark bedroom, he could see her clearly, remember her words, smell her scent on the sheets. It was agonizing that she had left him—even though her statements spoke otherwise, he knew she had left him.

On his meandering walk, he thought back to their beginning. He had been attracted to her from the beginning—her conversation, her wit, being around her was intensely pleasurable. It was years before he would admit to himself that he loved her and more months would pass before he could actually say those words. He laughed and Hank turned a questioning head in his direction.

He talked to the dog. "Yes, I love her," he chuckled, adding in his thoughts that he was trying to explain his feelings to a dog. He should marry her—they belonged together, he thought. A line of Shakespeare came into his mind "_Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments._" Sara's difficulties were also his; he wanted her, loved her, wanted to protect her and give her what she needed. He wanted her warmth and liveliness, her heart and mind, her happiness. She needed time—he decided to take off a couple of days, fly to San Francisco, assure Sara, and himself, that they could continue; this time would pass.

That night, a slow one for a change, he found Hodges working on some kind of game and for the first time in days, Grissom actually laughed. He pushed his worries of Sara aside as he questioned Hodges. He managed to forget his nagging concern about Warrick as Hodges set up another game. As he left the lab, he left paperwork for leave on Ecklie's desk and punched Sara's number on his phone.

_A/N: Moving on--a total of 36 chapters for this one. Getting the last chapters ready and we will post every other day this week! Thanks for reading and reviews!_


	33. Chapter 33

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 33**

Sara knew her mother was not well, but the discovery of how frail she looked, the labored breathing, the swelling of her feet, had been disheartening. She learned more from Kris, none of it good, and scheduled an appointment with the cardiologist's office. As she sat with her mother and listened to her rambling conversations, she realized her mother's remembrance of the past was often clear, but recent events caused her to stumble with her thoughts. At times Laura could recall her daughter's name; other times she would look at Sara as if she were a stranger.

Sara had no plans, made no predictions for what was going to happen, but sitting with her mother provided some kind of peacefulness. She did not stay all day; the companion, Susie, came daily and provided a simple routine for her mother that Sara did not wish to disrupt. She established her own schedule of arriving mid-morning, eating lunch with the women, usually her mother and Susie, and leaving afterwards so her mother would nap; Sara spent her afternoons walking. She had forgotten how easy it was to walk the neighborhoods of San Francisco.

The second afternoon of her arrival, she walked to the ocean. The streets around her mother's house made up a mixed neighborhood—she passed Chinese bakeries and French bistros and South Asian noodle houses on the same street. As she zigzagged along the sidewalks, she found streets unchanged for decades, block after block of pastel colored houses, only to turn a corner to find new multi-storied tract houses or large and expensive dwellings of the super rich.

She found the beach, a thin barrier of sand populated with surfers and dog walkers. She breathed deeply the salt scented air. For the first time in weeks, she did not feel the empty pit in her belly as she walked along the beach.

On her return, she purchased prepared food from the bakeries and delis she passed, and not knowing what the women liked, she over-bought. They were thrilled to include the sandwiches, pastries, rice and noodle dishes with their own, and as they ate, told more stories of their shared lives. Sara noticed one or another would place food in front of Laura, encourage her to eat, even cut food into small pieces before placing it on her plate; all done without noticeable attentions.

Before dark, she ambled back to the bed and breakfast where she found her bed made, an electric kettle on the chest, and a note asking if she would like a television in the room. She heated water for tea and called Grissom.

The day had established a routine she was to follow for days to come, even when Grissom came to visit. They visited her mother, ate lunch with her, then walked the neighborhoods of San Francisco.

When Grissom arrived a few days later, as Sara had been, he was surprised at the lush surroundings of the two-story bed and breakfast in a neighborhood of similar houses, yet this one was different. Peaceful appearing, he thought. The owner showed him to Sara's room, and instantly he knew Sara was making the room her own. He hid his unease, knowing she needed time away from Las Vegas.

Arriving at Laura's home, he saw two older women sitting on the small porch, and bent over the flower bed was Sara. A vision of long legs and an easy ripple of laughter reached his ears before her head came up, caught the two women looking in his direction, and she turned. Her eyes locked with his over the distance between them, and in an instant, an arrow from Cupid's quiver hit his chest to lodge so deep inside that it brought him to a complete stop.

Only four days had passed since she left Vegas, but it had seemed an eternity to him. He breathed her name. Only four days and color had returned to her cheeks. She moved with her old assurance and poise. She dropped what was in her hand and he heard his name as she came across the small lawn, her arms outspread, her smile breaking across her face in a way that said more than words.

"You're here!" Was all she said before she kissed him in greeting that turned into another kiss as her fingers laced through his hair, his arms went around her, and he realized he had missed her more than he thought possible.

They stayed with Sara's mother long enough to have lunch, for Laura's memory to recall, or at least pretend to remember, who Grissom was before they left with a promise to return later and take her to dinner. They held hands until they reached the bed and breakfast and Sara used a key to unlock the gate. As the gate closed, Grissom's arms folded around her, encasing her in a tight hold, and he felt her mold against his chest. She was better, he thought.

"Did you put your things in my room?" She pointed up the staircase. "I have my own porch!"

They climbed the narrow staircase, stopping twice to kiss before reaching the porch which was not much larger than the back seat of a small car. The windows were up and the breeze moved the gauzy curtains against the screens.

All Grissom seemed to be able to say was her name. By the time she had removed his shirt, he asked, "Are you sure?" Her response of a light giggle gave him his answer, just as her long fingers slid down the front of his pants and he lost his breath.

The quietness bothered him. "Where's the owner? It's so quiet up here."

Sara pushed him onto the bed before saying, "She checks on her other property—and if she's here, she is in the front of the house or the basement." She kissed his chest with long, slow kisses, touches of her tongue. "I've missed you every night—every day," she murmured. Their shoes dropped to the floor.

Her skin came alive under his fingertips. He knew better, but he would swear she felt different today than those last few weeks in Vegas. She blushed as he traced her jaw, her neck, and continued down her chest and he found himself saying her name again and again as they slowly made love in sun dappled room overlooking a flower-filled garden. When he entered her body, he groaned a sigh of pleasure as her back arched to meet him.

He meant to say something, but in the moments that followed, the unexpected rush of fulfillment brought both to that intense feeling of ecstasy; consciousness, the ability to speak, was lost, and all he could say was her name.

Afterwards, she brought water from a small refrigerator in the bathroom, sitting the cold bottle on his chest and laughing as he shivered.

"I love you, Gil." She whispered, fitting her head against his shoulder. "Thank you for coming."

He had swallowed half the water, kissed her and rolled the cold bottle along her arm just to hear her protest. "Sara, you know I love you—let's get married—tomorrow or next weekend."

She was shaking her head before he finished his sentence. "Not yet." She reached across him chest and placed the bottle on the bedside table. "My mother—you saw her—she's much—she's not doing well." Laying her head on his chest, her face away from his, she said, "I'm so afraid I'll end up like my mother—broken, unable to remember, no family." Her voice broke and she paused.

"Sara, that's not going to happen. Marry me—we'll have our own family—friends—you are not your mother."

"Gil," she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet to cover her chest. "Gil, do you want kids? Do you want a normal wife?"

Her blunt questions surprised him; it was two questions he had not asked himself in the past weeks and he didn't know the answer. He spoke from his heart instead of his brain. "Sara—I want you. I know I want you in my life—you need time with your mother, to do whatever it is you need to do." He chuckled. "Do I want a normal wife? Do you want a normal husband?" His hands pulled her face to his. "If either of us expected 'normal' we would not be together."

Sara sighed, dropped her eyes, and said, "What about kids?"

This was a topic they had not discussed and he hated the idea of talking about children while lying with the woman he loved, just after they had made love, and while she was so vulnerable. This time his sigh caused her to meet his eyes. He kissed her, wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly.

"Honey, I have never given much thought to having children—not even as a young man. Probably too selfish then—probably too selfish now. That said—if we had a child, I know I would love her—or him—almost as much as I love you. If we never have a child, I know I will be happy with you as long as I live." His thumb slid across her cheek when a tear appeared. "I think my one regret would be to die before you and leave you alone." He paused and wiped away another tear. He leaned up, placed hands on either side of her face and kissed her. "Should we have a baby—if you decide you want a child—tell me. If Larry King can father kids at his age, I think we can work something out—there's more than one way to be parents."

She nodded her head. For a while, they remained quiet and Grissom thought she might go to sleep until her hands moved, palms flattened against his chest. She could awaken desire in him with a look or a touch and did so today.

When she touched him, she heard a low, hungry sound—she continued to be amazed at the effect she had on him, on his emotions. She sensed the tension rising in his body as he moved and his mouth closed on hers. This sensation—a splendid dizzying current—raced through her body. It had been weeks since passion had been so sudden, unexpected, and welcome. Her hands encircled his neck. He kissed her again, deeply this time, and she responded, parting her lips, pushing her fingers through his hair.

Grissom's hand closed over her breast and pleasure rushed through Sara as a soft, husky hum came from her throat. His thumb circled her nipple and her body behaved with a mind of its own. She felt waves of shivers pulse through her as the sensual feel of his fingertips and his lips traveled down her bare chest. She kissed the top of his head; her hands glided across his shoulders and back.

She felt his firm erection against her bare hip, one of his hands and his mouth continued to play with her breasts, gently, while the other hand moved between her legs. He began touching her in the most intimate way, setting off a powerful aching sensation from her spine to her belly.

"Gil," she whispered. Her hand tugged against his back.

Delicately, as if his hands held a fragile rare butterfly, his knee separated her legs, his lips kissed her nipples and he rolled on top of her. She was aware of his erection against that throbbing wet entrance of her body, as he eased himself into her body, pushing, filling her. As his lips met hers, she gasped as her emotions rode waves of pleasure. And within minutes, a heavy groan escaped Grissom's throat and he collapsed against her. His head rested against her neck.

"Marry me, Sara." His breathing tickled her ear; his words caused confusion.

Her hand caressed his face. "I will, Gil." She kissed his temple. "I need to do some things—I need to—to stay here for a while." She kissed him again. "I can't go back, not yet. Please say you understand."

He understood too well. "I do—but remember I want to marry you!"

She smiled. "I know." She fell back against the pillow. "How can I feel so good—about us—and yet I have this nagging doubt—like the cloud hanging over a cartoon character—about everything, anything I try to do?" She closed her eyes and placed a finger and thumb over each eyelid.

As well as he knew his own name, Grissom knew Sara's kidnapping had opened old wounds, memories—she had referred to it as a dark pit once—and now she had called her depression a "cloud". He thought her use of cloud was an improvement. In time, it had happened only a few months ago, but it seemed longer, or rather the dark abyss that separated them from the halcyon days that preceded the disaster. Their lives had never been free of distractions, but they had become accustomed to dealing with workplace crimes and death, and managed to make a life, a happy one, together.

His arms embraced her, holding her tightly, as he kissed her—whispering words of a lover than made no sense in their content but became comforting to Sara as she relaxed in his arms.

There had been a radiance about her before Natalie—he remembered the pink blush on her face, the softness of her brown eyes, the confidence of her walk, the teasing turn of her head. Then it had happened, as sudden and unexpected as a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. Sara was gone—the discovery of a doll in a miniature crime scene had been a shock to him. The effect on Sara had been much worse.

"What is it you want to do, honey?"

She was limp against his body, her warmth seeping into his skin. He felt the swell of her chest as she took in a breath.

Sara said, "I thought we might go to the beach, or drive up the coast, let her visit her home town. I thought I might learn about my childhood, talk to my mom about things that happened. But she's so ill—I've looked it up—she's near the end of congestive heart disease. I haven't talked with her doctor yet, but I know what he's going to say. She can't live much longer—she sleeps propped up in bed, her legs are swollen. I guess I wanted to make up for lost time, Gil, be a good daughter instead of an absent one."

He wanted her back, but he wanted her happy. "I want you to be happy," he said. "You are a good daughter, Sara. Neither you nor your mother can make the past what it should have been—your mother knows this. You stay here—for as long as you need to stay. I'll visit; when you feel like it, you can fly to Vegas." He tugged her closer. "I'll drive your car out on my next trip."

She nodded. "Thanks—I love you, Gil." She kissed his chin, settled against him and seemed to melt into his skin.

He tucked the sheet around them and closed his eyes. This was a quiet room, he thought. Almost an isolated tree house, he decided. Sara could heal in this place—she would mend her mind helping her mother.

Later, they took Laura to dinner in a small restaurant and all three laughed and talked as Laura told them stories of working in the garment factory and living with five other women, some times confusing names and places. She ate slowly and very little, Sara noticed.

The next day, she and Grissom walked the length of the Golden Gate Park after spending the morning with Laura. That night, they sat on the top step of the small, high porch and talked of rainforests and birds, butterflies and bugs, of ships and seas, whales and dolphins.

"When this is over," Sara said, "let's take a trip—one of a life time. Go see the world."

Grissom nodded, "We will." He chuckled. "Can we get a ship's captain to marry us?"

Sara elbowed him with a laugh. "I'll marry you and become a fat, nagging wife and you will hate your life and complain to everyone how much I've changed!"

"Never."

The following days became a tumultuous time of distractions and disruptions of routines. Sara was stunned when the plain-spoken cardiologist told her of her mother's prognosis: "Short," he said, "less than three months. Her heart is like a balloon—an old one—it is quickly wearing out." He suggested home hospice services. She left his office with resignation weighing on her own heart and, as she rode the bus, she wiped tears from her face.

Grissom returned to a death involving dog fighting rapidly followed by the rodeo show in Vegas, a murdered cowboy, and a desk piled high with cases in some state of progress. He knew Warrick had a problem; he had yet to realize its source or how serious it was becoming. Before the rodeo arena was cleared of its sawdust and bulls, Grissom's head ached and his body developed fever. He couldn't believe he had gotten a severe cold or the flu—postponing his driving trip to San Francisco.

He forbade Sara from visiting, "You do not want this stuff—nor expose your mother to it."

Feeling miserable, he tried to stay at home but Mattie Klein demanded a favor and by the time he returned home, he was exhausted, ached all over, and wanted nothing more than to sleep. When his phone rang, he revived at his caller and grinned as he heard Sara's voice.

_A/N: And our story moves forward! Reviews? Comments? Who is still reading? This is a long chapter--three more to go! _


	34. Chapter 34

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 34**

Sara was coming home, not to stay, but for a few days. Grissom had cleaned and dusted, vacuumed and laundered everything in the house. Since she left Vegas, and especially after he had been sick, he had been visited by his team—checking on him, Nick said. Catherine and Brass came while they were working a case. Several days later, Catherine returned to talk about the little girl found in a box and the threat she had heard in the parking garage. Greg had arrived with three books loaned to him by Sara. Even Mandy and Wendy showed up one afternoon with dog treats and an offer to keep Hank should he want to leave town. Only Warrick had not come; Grissom's efforts to talk with Warrick had ended with an awkward confrontation, nothing resolved.

He knew Sara was gradually returning to her old self—she called every day and often laughed when she talked, she had stories to tell, she had visited Berkley's campus and connected with two of her old professors. Her mother was dying, yet in the mysterious way the mind works, Sara was getting better by caring for her mother. She planned to return to San Francisco driving her car—a plan he was not happy with but he knew she wanted her car.

To celebrate her return, Catherine had invited their friends and co-workers to her home. Sara had reluctantly agreed to this party. He insisted it was not a party but just friends eating a meal together.

When Grissom picked Sara up at the airport, she took his breath; her broad smile had returned, her walk was brisk, and her voice was bright, confident. She saw Grissom first in the crowded airport and ran to him—smiling.

"I've missed you!"

Grissom was speechless as she wrapped arms around his neck in an unaccustomed public display of affection. But her mouth on his was another reason he could not form words. When she pulled away, all he could do was grin. His first thought was about the party; maybe it wasn't such a good idea, he thought. He wanted to be alone with her for hours—days, but he had already committed to Catherine's dinner.

"How much time do we have?" Sara asked after they were in the car. "I need a quick shower."

"We can be late—I have something else in mind," he growled under his breath.

By the time Sara greeted Hank and got to the bathroom, Grissom was standing by the shower with a new cake of an expensive soap in his hand and the shower door quickly fogging with steam. She hurriedly left her clothes in a heap and took the soap.

"Aren't you coming in?"

He needed no encouragement, and within minutes, he was making sure every part of her was thoroughly explored, or cleaned, he insisted. Her loving responses warmed and touched him and sent a shiver down his spine; the soap bar was tossed away so both hands were free for more intimate caresses. His fingers found her soft folds as he kissed her neck, played his tongue along her collarbone, found the spot behind her ear. His touches brought a soft moan from her lips.

Sara's hands moved across wet shoulders and along the muscles of his back. "I miss you every day," she whispered.

The urge of passion moved them from shower to bed, dripping water across the floor and dampening the sheets. He had found his place, sliding hands below her butt, his body pressed against hers. He lifted his hips and as he made a sound of pleasure, he heard Sara's quick intake of air—a gasp of happiness, he thought. They had never put words to this intimate joining; both were always surprised by the gentleness, the exquisite feeling of fulfillment that occurred with the physical act of sex.

Afterwards, they lay entwined with each other, Sara curves curled around his angles and nestled her head in the space between his chin and shoulder. She had somehow managed to maneuver her leg over his so he could feel the damp warmth emanating from her feminine center.

"We have to go to Catherine's," he finally said.

She snuggled closer, yawning. "I could sleep for hours—do I have to go?"

Sara knew she was expected—she dressed casually, as did Grissom—because the gathering was for her benefit. They knew her mother was ill and officially she was taking an extended leave of absence—no one but Grissom knew she planned to resign her position. Catherine and Greg were in the kitchen when they arrived and both stared for a full minute at seeing Sara and Grissom together, so obviously a couple. Sara's appearance had not changed, yet Catherine knew a change had occurred. Nick noticed her beauty which had taken on a new softness.

"Sara!" Nick grabbed her in a two-arm hug and for a few minutes Grissom was ignored as Catherine and Nick tried to talk at once before everyone else heard the commotion and came inside.

It was a party of old friends—no one asked questions that were too personal even though everyone wanted to know more—when would Sara return, would she come back to work, but no one asked. Even Catherine was willing to wait for answers; she had already told the story of finding a photograph of a young Gil Grissom and an even younger Sara Sidle on Grissom's refrigerator. At one point, the group gathered for photographs and Catherine's mother gave directions for smiles and "look this way" as friends looped arms around each other in the back yard.

Some time in the early hours before dawn, Sara's phone rang. She tussled with covers and wiggled from Grissom's arms to reach the phone, knowing it could not be good news for her phone to ring at four in the morning. Grissom woke up as she answered and listened to the one-sided conversation. Her hand covered her eyes as she clicked the phone closed.

"Laura?" He asked.

Sara nodded. "Not good—she doesn't want to go to the hospital, struggling to breathe. She asked if I would come." Tears flooded her eyes. "She's dying, Gil. I need to go—I thought she would be okay for a few days." She wiped her eyes.

"I'll come with you," he said as he got out of bed.

"No, there's no need. She may improve by the time I arrive." Sara pulled her shirt over her head. "If you could call for the next flight—I'll get my car next time."

In a few hours she was flying out of Las Vegas. Grissom pulled over on his way to work to watch her plane climb above the tall casinos and disappear beyond the horizon. He knew Sara wanted to be with her mother yet he sensed an unspoken need; something troubled him—perhaps the ghosts of the past had faded but the hollow pit in her belly had closed to quickly to be completely filled. He worried the death of her mother would rip open the dark depression that had driven her from him.

Almost before Sara landed in San Francisco, Grissom and Brass were heading to Los Angeles and, of the many cases the two men had worked, the death of an actress was one for Dr. Robbins scrapbook.

Sara's mother improved, slightly, and Sara called hospice services. When the women in the house realized Sara was staying almost all the time with her mother, they found a small cot and set it up in Laura's room so Sara could sleep. By the end of the week, she was using the bed and breakfast room only for showers and changing clothes. The other women cooked foods Laura had enjoyed in the past and Sara coaxed a few bites of potatoes or pie or rice into her mother's mouth every hour she was awake until Laura would turn her head away from the spoon.

"She'll eat pudding and gelatin and soup," she told Grissom late one night. "Last night someone made macaroni and cheese and she ate four bites before she stopped. This morning she ate an egg."

"I'll come if you want," he said, knowing there was a looming crisis with Warrick.

"No, there's nothing you can do—nothing anyone can do now. She knows she's dying, Gil. She made me write down her wishes—to be scattered in the ocean, she said." She sniffed and he knew she was trying not to cry. "She said we always had so much fun at the beach—it's the place we were happy."

"I'll come—tomorrow, Sara."

She refused his offer. "This may go on for several weeks. I'm staying with her almost all the time now—I'll call if anything changes."

Laura Sidle died two days later; only a few hours before Warrick Brown had been taken into custody for the murder of Lou Gedda. When Grissom called Sara trying to explain what was happening to Warrick, she listened and said they would talk later; he needed to take care of Warrick.

Laura's house mates gathered in her room to say good-bye in their own way and to sit with Sara who realized their collective grief showed their true love for her mother; the hospice nurse had called the crematory and in two hours, the body was covered and, respectively carried from the house. She sat in the darkened room as the women came in, one by one, to offer food, to hold her hand, to make the bed, and to sit with her until one suggested she try to sleep.

Brenda, who had also killed her spouse, sat beside the bed as Sara tried to sleep. She told her story—a familiar one to Sara—of how she had remained with a man she thought she loved until he had beaten any affection she might have had out of her body and soul. She had met Laura while both were undergoing psychiatric treatment and later followed Laura to the minimum security prison where they continued treatment for mental illness.

"When you don't have the abusive husband around, it's easy to recover from that part of mental illness," Brenda said with a trace of ridicule. "The mental illness becomes the stigma—the loss of family and friends. Kris came along and got us here—I'm not religious but this house belongs to the Lutherans and that's the best thing religion has done for me."

"What happened to your family?" Sara asked.

"I didn't have any children. A sister lives in San Diego but I haven't seen her in years."

Sara rose up on her elbows. "Do you need anything? I'd like to give you a gift—there must be something you—all of you—would like to have. I'd like to buy something as a memorial to my mother—for you to remember her."

"Sara, we will remember Laura. We live simply—give something to the Lutherans for their housing program—so more women can have a chance for a good home." She chuckled. "And the beaches—Laura loved the beach. I'll bet there are groups that would love a donation in her name! If you agree, I'll take up money at work and give it to you to for Laura—for the beaches. She would like that."

Hearing Brenda's story and her suggestions had calmed Sara's thoughts. She felt Brenda's hand rest on her arm as her eyes closed. She would sleep for a while and call Grissom. Maybe they could drive up the coastline, she thought, or they could get on a ship and scatter her mother's ashes in the ocean…

Before she woke, the vibration of her phone against her hip stirred her from sleep. Confusion cleared a moment later when she saw it was Nick calling her. Quickly, she answered—she had slept for hours in her mother's bed—knowing Nick would not call unless there was an emergency. She heard his words of Warrick's death. She could not cry as she made the bed, dressed and packed her small bag, and woke Brenda to tell her she was leaving because of an unexpected death.

The five women were up before she left the house and she promised to return to say a proper goodbye, collect her mother's things, and tell them of her plans.

When she entered the lab, an eerie silence met her. Judy whispered a welcome and waved her back to Grissom's office. She waited, remembering she had not told him about her mother's death. Then Grissom arrived and all thoughts left her mind except for the need to comfort him. He was devastated.

Somehow, he told her of finding Warrick, his voice trembling with emotion. Later, he asked about her mother and she shook her head. She explained, "She's been dying for weeks, Gil. We knew it—an expected death—unlike this one."

Then she began to plan for Warrick.


	35. Chapter 35

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 35**

Much later, after Warrick's funeral and burial, after a lunch prepared and served by church members, after meeting little Eli Brown, Sara and Grissom returned home and dropped themselves onto the sofa, exhausted and drained from events which had happened so quickly neither had time to process what had happened. They had not been more than a few steps apart all day; the strain of loss was etched across both faces.

Grissom brought Sara's hand to his lips, saying, "Thanks for everything—coming so quickly—I'm so sorry I wasn't with you."

She leaned back and closed her eyes. "What happens now, Gil?"

The way she said the words—calmly, without emotion—scared him as much as anything else had in the previous three days. His fright slammed him with pain—more than he had felt holding Warrick as he died, or as he tried to finish the eulogy, or when he had held the infant who's green eyes were like his father's. For a second he thought he might be having a heart attack.

When he said nothing, she looked at him with dazed, frantic eyes; a wild animal trying to escape a trap. What he saw in her face was the same hopelessness that had gathered after her kidnapping. The black hole had ruptured, returned, and she was sliding into it even as she sat beside him.

He got up and pulled her beside him. "Let's go to bed—sleep will help—or just to talk."

They did not sleep, but Sara talked. She was going back to San Francisco, "to pack her mother's things" she said. She talked about a memorial to her mother—finding an organization that would use a donation in an appropriate way. Finally, she seemed to empty her brain of all thoughts and her eyes closed. In time, Grissom slept until he felt her stirring awake.

"I can't stay, Gil," she said as they ate.

He lifted his eyes from his plate. They had walked Hank to the park, neither able to say more than a few words—as if life had drained from both of them.

"I—we should go away—for a few days. Get away from all this."

He shook his head. "There's too much to do—I can't leave everyone to deal with—with what's happened."

"Later, then. I need to take care of my mom's things—I want to make a donation as a memorial to her."

He folded his hand around hers. "You okay?"

As an answer, she reached across the table and caressed his face, leaning to kiss him as she moved from her chair. "I'll be fine—will you be okay?"

He turned and she sat in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers laced through his hair. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

The first day of sorrow passed with fits of talking and long periods of silence. It rained and they sat at their computers; Sara searched for an organization working to protect the oceans and beaches. Grissom sent an email to each person at the lab, short statements saying they had all suffered a loss and grief should not be hidden.

They slept again and Sara woke to the smell of breakfast—pancakes or waffles, she supposed. In the kitchen, Grissom was cooking pancakes.

"Hungry?" he said.

She wasn't but she climbed onto the chair as he plated several pancakes and handed her the syrup. For a moment, he stood behind her, then placed a hand on her arm before turning back to the stovetop. She heard the sizzle of pouring pancake batter.

Grissom went to work for several hours, finding everyone working in a dazed, bewildered state. The swing shift team, a few from day shift, worked the cases that came in, leaving Nick and Greg and Catherine to wander around the lab pretending to work. Grissom finally gave up and left, waving to the others, hoping they would follow him out the door.

Two more days passed much as the first one; Sara had packed her small bag preparing for her departure and had postponed leaving once again. Both knew her plans were vague—she had mentioned driving up the coast and going to visit the last town where she had lived with her parents; neither was ready for the absence of the other. They lay together on the bed, dressed, Grissom ready for work but unwilling to leave her.

His phone rang twice. Sara pleaded with him to go with her, to take a trip, to get away from work and Vegas, but he was unable to answer her melancholic plea.

The next twelve hours opened the abyss of blackness that had tentatively closed over Sara's past with a force that threatened to suffocate her thoughts, her words, her actions. Grissom's words burned into her ears with such strength that tears could not be stopped as she left the lab. She had been wrong about Tom Adler; she had wanted Grissom to understand, her emotions had overwhelmed her reasoning. But it had been a mistake to make demands and she saw in his eyes how tired he was as realization hit her slow-acting brain. He was tired of her, of her wavering, unstable emotions.

She left Las Vegas again, driving away this time. She wrote a short note saying she would be in touch after she had taken care of her mother. She had taken time to pack a duffle bag with more clothes and shoes and her passport. She needed to get away from the heat, the dry desert, the death replayed each day. And she needed time for her self, time to think about what was next in her life; she would visit the last place she had lived with her parents. She would find her father's grave and lay the abusive ghost of her past with his body. She would find a way to scatter her mother's ashes on the ocean. The Ocean Conservancy had a ship leaving San Francisco in a week and she was contemplating making a phone call to their volunteer line.

The nine to ten hour drive to San Francisco gave Sara time to think, and driving through the Tehachapi Mountains, she began making mental notes. By the time she got to the bay area, she had called the owner of the bed and breakfast reserving another week in her upstairs room. She called her mother's friends to say she would be there the next day to pack her mother's belongings.

And she heard from Grissom. They had talked for nearly an hour and said little. It occurred to Sara that he had spoken truthfully, but enigmatically in an effort to force something to happen. Her first thought was he was tired of her but on reflection, perhaps he was as tired as she was of death and dying. In her mind she could see him sitting at his desk, a pile of papers before him, his hands, his hair, his eyes watching her, achingly beautiful. She wanted him so desperately she could feel her heart rate increasing at the thought.

"I will miss you," he said.

"I'm sorry," Sara's voice cracked as she spoke. She felt an end had come to a story; she didn't want him to say anything more.

"I—I don't want you to be sorry," he said. "The thing is—I need—I needed to love you, Sara. You resurrected my heart."

Her mind could not comprehend what he was saying—had he used past tense to mean the beginning or the end. She knew her silence was awkward; she should have something to say but felt some strange tide had washed into her insides.

"Gil," she finally said, "I'm going to scatter my mother's ashes in the ocean. There's a ship leaving in a week—from San Francisco—they are looking for volunteers. I'm thinking I need to make a change—to see a part of the world I've only dreamed about. Come with me—take a vacation—for a week. We'll see the ocean together, laugh again."

His response was what she expected. The lab needed him. They were short-handed. In a month or two, he said, maybe he could join her. A reluctant resignation sounded in his voice. She wanted to believe he would do as he said, but she already knew his habits. He would work and work and work until he was exhausted and burned out as he had been when he took the sabbatical or until she returned and she wasn't sure she could return.

All her life, Sara had tried, in nameless, indeterminate ways, to complete herself with someone else—her father, her mother, her lost brother, college professors, even Grissom. She wanted to belong to herself, at least for a while. She called the Conservancy group who were delighted to have a responsible sounding adult offering her services for anything needed. She packed her mother's ashes in a shoe box and placed it inside her duffle.

She found three graves in the cemetery; her father, her brother who had died at seventeen, and the unknown uncle. She placed a rock on the top of her father's marker and walked away. It had not been difficult to shed his ghostly spirit because he had never been a father to her; his only legacy was that of his uncle who had left Sara enough money to pay her bills and have no financial worries for the foreseeable future. She grinned as she wrote three sizeable checks to the Lutherans, the Sea Shepherd Society and the Ocean Conservancy Group. She could do something to help battered women find a safe home and repair the environment.

The friends of her mother were at the dock to wave goodbye as she climbed aboard the small ship. They had given her a small green wreath to throw after her mother's ashes in the Pacific—greenery they had gathered and braided from the back yard. She hoped she would not be seasick for days, and she tried to remain optimistic that Grissom would show up at the last minute to join her. She had talked to him once during the week, and before leaving, she had sent one last email giving him the ship's schedule, ports of call, and her ultimate destination of an ecology center in Costa Rica. She had ended the message by writing she was doing this for herself, as a way to break from her past, and ended with his favorite farewell, "Peace"…

Sara had sat across from his desk and asked who he was talking about when he had meant to say "Tom and Pam Adler" but he had said nothing! He wanted to say how beautiful she looked, how happy he was that she was home, but in their exchange of words, something had happened; he looked away and she was gone. He wanted to smash his fist into a wall. She has slipped away as quickly as water after a desert rain. He stayed at work for hours, hoping she would call, and when he opened the door of their home, he knew she was gone. This time she was leaving him—his stubborn, obtuse refusal to give her the only thing she had ever asked for—had driven her away.

Dialing her number, he wasn't sure what he would say, or even if she would answer her phone. They talked for nearly an hour as she drove and, afterwards, he thought he had not been able to express his thoughts in the right way while she had explained quite clearly what she was going to do.

In the days that followed, his emotions went from extreme anger—frightening to himself—to being gripped by convulsions of anguish. He wanted to punish Sara for leaving him and barely talked when she called a few days after leaving. The day of her departure, he received a long email and sat on their bed, choking down tears.

Every night he went to work and stayed to work doubles; occasionally he worked triple shifts. He began to feel emptied out—a deep sadness that ached his bones. He tried to sleep in their bed, but found it useless, and kept the television on for company as he slept on the sofa. Hank watched him with sad, mournful eyes, refusing to eat some days, and sitting next to Grissom when they went to the park.

For days, he assigned cases and worked with an increased fervor that bordered on obsession. The new CSI came in with enthused freshness that he vaguely remembered from years ago, but he had lost that feeling—more recently than he wanted to admit. He found he had lost his enthusiasm and his ability to concentrate. One moment he would be listening to Nick or Catherine and the next he would be back at that moment—Sara asking him who he was talking about.

He felt his life was continually imploding, the emptiness swelling up into the immense space in the Nevada sky. He was drifting into an abyss of darkness as he watched his life grow smaller and smaller. Four weeks after Sara left, he received a message from her. She looked tired, a little frazzled, but he sensed an aliveness, an independence that had not been there before. He realized that so much of Sara had been invisible to him; why had it been so hard to look at the woman he loved and understand his need for her, the way his life held an accumulation of moments they had shared.

Alone, he had tried to alleviate his anguish, to think analytically about their relationship; it had done nothing but kept him awake. Finally, he acknowledged his fear, his anger, the pain, in a very unusual way. Lying on a strange bed, he heard a woman say his sadness and hurt was not being squandered, was not frivolous, that somewhere inside it was making him pliable and tender.

"Grissom," Heather said. He had turned away from her so she would not see the tears in his eyes. She handed him a box of tissues. "I'm sorry."

"We all fail one another," he said.

Heather's eyes showed confusion for a few seconds, and then she smiled. "Yes, as long as we live, but we can also change—do the right thing."

_A/N: Okay, time to review this story--actually, we want TWO reviews, one for this chapter and one for the last, upcoming chapter of this story. Sadness, depression, darkness is difficult to write (for us!), so let us know if we've written a good story! Hundreds of you read , and it is time to repay! REVIEW! Thanks! We promise fluff, smut in the last chapter--so review, now! _


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Last chapter, enjoy!_

**That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 36**

Crime did not stop because of personal grief or sorrow but when the young Korean boy, a victim of so much, became a killer, Grissom knew he was ready to change his life. A few days later, he saw Natalie Davis and realized the damage in her life was lasting; maybe some people could not change, he thought. A few nights later, he watched as two old lovers met in a hospital room. Driven apart by prejudice and pride, he saw his own future and determined he could change.

Early the next morning, he sent his resignation to Conrad Ecklie and the sheriff. He checked the name of the center in Costa Rica and placed a call of inquiry. As an old serial killer resurfaced, or at least his methods of killing, Grissom agreed to extend his date of resignation. He would not be waiting in Costa Rica when Sara arrived, but he would be there by the end of her first week…

After Sara's mother had died peacefully, after she had walked the streets of the town where she had last lived with her parents, there had been a lifting of sorrow. She would never remember most of her childhood and made a decision to accept her past. It was as if her soul had come out of hibernation and the pit in her belly began to close.

Of course, her new surroundings helped. She was not seasick; she quickly learned to be a cook's helper on the ship and her vegetarian skills were immediately appreciated by fellow vegetarians on board. During the day, the group watched whales and dolphins, spotted an occasional turtle, and pulled debris from the ocean with nets and long hooks. The scent of the ocean was always with her and it cleaned and cleared her mind and body. At times she could not sleep and found company with others on the ship who refused to spend time sleeping when the sky was filled with stars or the ocean twinkled and shone with the mysteries of multi-colored life.

A young man helped her with the video she sent to Grissom. She had written and re-written what she wanted to say and afterwards, tried to decide if she had said the right words, if she had appeared happy, when reality was so different. She was lonely beyond words; the throbbing pain in her chest was not physically going to kill her but she knew it was her broken heart. She had not heard from him since she sent the video to his email and at times, she had to stand with the wind in her face to prevent tears from covering her face. The others on the ship did not know her, did not recognize the sorrow and misery across her eyes, and only a few noticed she seldom stood in line to check satellite email. Her mind and body responded to sightings of sea life, and her amazement was genuine, but it was tempered by the absence of the one person she loved.

Sara had loved being at sea, but once she arrived in Costa Rica, she discovered a new passion for wildlife and the jungle. It was nothing as she had imaged it to be—everything was alive—below her feet, above her head, at eye level. The researchers who met the ship seemed to know everyone, where to eat, what she would need and where to buy it, and after a fast shopping trip, she was following five people she had met that morning into the jungle. They walked a mile on a well-marked path to a clearing with several buildings and one of the women showed her to a room with two beds and a foot locker.

"It's not fancy, but you'll be comfortable," she explained as she illustrated the workings of the adjoining bathroom. "We insisted on real bathrooms several years ago when we started recruiting more volunteers," she said with a laugh. She pointed to a posted schedule. "We leave early and return mid-afternoon. Evening meal is at six so unpack and join us on the porch."

For six days, Sara followed the researchers into a woodland of growth so thick that one could only see ten feet or so into the forest. It was not nearly as hot as she thought it would be; one did sweat, but a breeze seemed to whisper through the green vegetation and one was seldom in full sun. Several uphill miles from the research center, the jungle became thick with vines, creepers, tree ferns and palms with larger trees growing overhead in a dense canopy. Birds she could not see filled the air with their delicate chimes that sounded nothing like the chirps of Las Vegas birds. Little hummingbirds with wings fluttering inches from her face seemed to be welcoming her into their home. By the time they reached their destination—several permanent looking tents wedged between trees, Sara's shirt was soaking with sweat. She was surprised to learn two researchers, Dave and Mary Ann, husband and wife, lived at this outpost for days at a time, and decided they were the serious researchers of the group.

Another surprise to Sara was the similarity between a crime scene and the plotting of squares in the jungle to count animal activity. By the end of her second day, everyone realized she was experienced and meticulous, but she did not like heights. She did not want to be strapped into a rope harness and hauled to the top of the tree canopy, she explained. She would take the ground searches.

On the sixth day, Sara had finished her plot and, with her camera, she followed a little monkey from tree to tree as he found food. She was enjoying herself more than she had thought possible—she was eating because she was hungry, sleeping because she was exhausted, and she seldom dreamed. Only when she got into bed at night did she have time to think of Grissom who would love every minute of what she was doing.

The monkey chattered and then became extremely quiet. Sara would never know if she actually heard something, or turned because the monkey looked over her head, but she turned. A mirage, a hallucination stood on the path in the form of a sweaty, hat wearing Gil Grissom. When he moved, she knew he was no illusion but flesh and blood coming toward her with arms outstretched.

They remained in each others arms until they heard a collective cough and turned to face three of the researchers who had come to meet this newcomer, an interloper who seemed to be on extremely intimate terms with their recently arrived volunteer.

The new guy recovered first, "Gil Grissom," he said.

A shout from behind the group caused them to turn and look at Dave, the researcher who camped at the site. "Dr. Grissom! You've finally arrived!" He scrambled around the table, holding out a hand and calling his wife. "I kept your secret! Was she surprised?" He looked at Sara with a mischievous smile. "You didn't know!" He laughed and patted Grissom on the back. "Some time we men have to stick together, you know!"

A chorus of laughter and talk filled the area as everyone talked at once, quickly learning this newcomer was Sara's fiancé who had arrived in San Jose the day before and flown on a small airplane to the nearest airport, caught a ride early this morning on a local bus, and had been dropped off at the ecology center to find it deserted except for the native cook.

The cook, in broken English, had tried to explain the location of the group and when Grissom pulled out his GPS, the man quickly entered the destination and pointed at a trail. Grissom laughed as he explained how the cook had run after him with quickly wrapped tortillas. By the time he had finished his story, the others had spread lunch on one of the tables and Grissom added more of the same.

Instead of waiting for the others, Sara and Grissom headed back to the center after lunch—Sara had smiled so much her face ached, but it was a good hurt, she thought, as Grissom held her hand in his as they started down the trail.

"It's better to have the down hill walk at the end of the day," she said with a laugh.

Grissom walked beside her, his arm slipped around her waist, until the heat and sweat built between them and he had to let go and take her hand.

"Is it always this muggy?" He asked.

Sara laughed, saying, "Yes, but you get used to it—sort of!" She stopped on the path and looked at him. "Are you really here? I can't believe it—and that Dave knew!"

Grissom smiled. "He's known for three weeks." He shrugged off his backpack. "He knows something else too—well, sort of knows something else." He zipped open one of the small pockets of his pack and reached inside, pulling out a small bag. Three things fell into his palm. He slipped two wide gold rings on his finger. "Sara Sidle, will you marry me—soon, tomorrow or a week from today?" His palm was closed. "If you say yes, I've got something else for you," he teased. He held up his closed hand.

Sara smiled and fingered the rings. "You got two," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

"I did—will you? Marry me?"

She nodded and he opened his hand to reveal a necklace of a dozen rings in various sizes connected by a slender chain. The largest ring, no larger than a quarter, was set with diamonds that sparkled and shone with a light of their own.

"Oh," she said as she lifted it from his hand. "Oh, Gil, you shouldn't have."

"Put it on," he instructed.

"I'm sweaty, dirty."

He grinned as he took it from her hand. "It doesn't matter." He kissed her as his hands came around her neck and he clasped the chain together. "It's not an engagement ring but I know you wear more necklaces than rings."

She fingered the necklace and gave him a teary smile. "I don't know what to say."

"Yes, say yes."

Sara said yes.

_The Epilogue or Their Fate_

Gil Grissom arriving so unexpectedly caused such a surprise to Sara, who was stunned into speechlessness for longer than she could remember, that when he presented her with rings and a very beautiful and very expensive necklace, all she could say was "Yes".

In the room with two beds and a foot locker, Grissom surveyed the space—clothes neatly hung on several pegs served as a closet, a bottle of lotion placed on the window ledge and several things lay on the top of the trunk. He had hastily thrown his bag on the floor after he arrived and bent to pick it up. Both beds were made up with white sheets and a blanket folded across the foot; Grissom could pick out Sara's bed only because a book and small clock were nearest the one on the right side of the room.

He nodded toward the narrow bed on the left. "Can I sleep here?"

She laughed at his question, a husky, sexy sound that made something inside him began to soar and sing as those birds in the forest he had heard earlier. She grabbed his bag and slid it to a corner of the room; just as rapidly, she moved the foot locker away from the bed, laughing and pointing at one end of a bed for him to help her move it.

"Not only will you stay in my room, you are going to sleep next to me! And share my bathroom." Words suddenly poured from her like water over a dam as they arranged the beds and moved the locker again. "The bathroom is interesting—shower water is recycled into the toilet. A solar panel heats the water and you get a very short warm shower. Did you bring flip flops—shower shoes? Always check your shoes for stinging scorpions." She pointed to the overhead fan. "It runs on solar power too, so it usually runs down before dawn. But breakfast is at six and we are on the trail by seven…"

She stopped talking when he moved to put his bag on the bed and reached out to him. "You really are here," she whispered and wrapped her arms around him as if she had just discovered he was not an illusion.

Finally, he asked, "Are you okay—really okay?" His hands combed through her hair; cut shorter than he remembered. He wanted to keep her between his hands until nightfall and then wrap the bed sheet around them so he could feel her breathing against his chest.

By some process, they managed to undress, shower and fall into the pushed-together beds still wearing towels before the others returned for the afternoon siesta. They lay on one narrow bed, Sara on her side, Grissom on his back.

"I want us to be honest with each other, brutally honest," she said as her hand rested on his chest.

He said, "Brutally?"

She smiled, "Yes, brutally!"

"All right," he said, but his voice teased.

Sara's eyes moved to a small scar just above his left eyebrow. "I'm very much in love with you and it scares me to death."

His hand covered hers. "I know, honey, I know." He had briefly closed his eyes and when he opened them, her eyes locked with his.

She looked away when she continued. "I'll never be a normal wife, Gil. I wouldn't know how to be one…"

He slipped his arms around her and drew her against him. "I know that and I'll never expect you to be whatever is normal." He chuckled. "Didn't we have this conversation once?"

He felt her laugh against his neck and he held her tighter, his fingers pressed into her back. They kissed in the way of beginning lovers, becoming familiar with what was remembered as contact was prolonged and deepened.

They made love in the afternoon in the bed she had slept in for a week, slowly finding and rediscovering those never forgotten ways of loving a partner. He noticed a shudder as she climaxed and as he moved above her he knew this was the person who would be with him and in his heart for the rest of his life; even as his last breath left his body he would think of her. He burrowed his face against her neck and breathed deeply and disappeared as the intensity of orgasm sent rhythmic waves of passion through his body.

"I feel like a woman in a Gauguin painting," she said.

He wrapped an arm around her, securely, protectively. "Which one?"

Sara quietly laughed. "The Noble Woman—naked with only a bit of cloth covering her."

"And how," he asked, "in a few short weeks did you become a Gauguin expert?"

This time she giggled, a sound he had loved for years, and realized it had been months since he had heard the genuine sound from her. "A limited supply of books," she explained.

He moved his finger along the valley between her breasts and placed his head below her chin as his hand wrapped around her. Drowsiness came to both and they slept as the afternoon floated away. Neither of them heard the others return and whisper and walk lightly along the hallway to take their own siestas.

Thus it happened that Sara Sidle agreed to marry Gil Grissom in a ceremony conducted by a local Costa Rican justice in a building painted bright blue and trimmed in orange. The group of researchers attended; even Dave and Mary Ann left their tent to join the wedding party. Afterwards, as they ate, talked, and laughed, Sara thought this was the best way. None of those around the couple knew about the beating of Greg Sanders at the hands of a mob or the horrendous murder of Warrick Brown by a mobster, or about a monster named Natalie Davis or the broken and destroyed childhood of Sara Sidle or the change in life that Gil Grissom made that brought him to the rainforest. All Sara saw in the faces around her was happiness and joy and cheerfulness for the newlyweds.

The small town had one nice hotel and Grissom had managed to rent the nicest room, on the third floor with no elevator, for two nights. Windows opened to porch with a hammock and a view above the forest, lush green as far as one could see, and several ceiling fans turned lazily in the breeze. There was food in the refrigerator, juice and water to last at least twenty-four hours. He had promised a real honeymoon later—a surprise, he said.

Sara seemed to see none of this; her eyes had stayed on Grissom as he led her through the lobby, up tiled steps as he insisted on carrying both bags, and at the top of the last flight, his key had opened the one door.

"Do you like it?" He asked after long minutes of silence.

She turned to him. She had managed to find a beautiful white blouse to wear, or maybe it was one she had always had, he thought, but today, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She smiled. "I do—all of it." Her fingers were unfastening the small white buttons down its front. "Do we have to leave?"

"Eventually," he said. He started doing the same with his shirt.

Almost at the same instant, their hands moved to their pants as each unsnapped, unzipped, and stepped out of them—mirror images, if anyone had been watching. He stood for a minute in white boxers; he wore no socks and his shoes had been toed off when his pants dropped. Sara stepped from the puddle of cloth around her ankles; her panties and bra were plain white cotton, not what she would have chosen, but since she had left the fancy stuff in Vegas, she decided these would have to do for the most special day of her life.

Her thumb slipped under the waist band. "I left La Perla in Vegas," she said with a grin.

"I don't care," he whispered, so quietly she had to read his lips from four feet away.

He made the first move to the bed, taking her hand and pushing the covers back, tossing a few pillows aside.

"Is it cool enough? I can turn the fans higher—no air conditioning."

"I don't care," she whispered as she pulled him into the soft bed.

His laugh was soft, low and husky, warmed by happiness. Swiftly, he undressed her, tossing her panties after the pillows, and pushing his boxers to the foot of the bed. He rolled onto his back and pulled her down onto his chest. "I've loved you for so long, Mrs. Grissom, that I could not imagine life without you."

She framed his face with her hands and kissed him with an urgency that made him groan. She felt him pressed against her, heavy and rigid with desire.

His fingers traced to her waist and hip, to the cleft that separated her butt, moving lower he found the place where she was already damp and aching with need.

Sara kissed his throat, his shoulder and chest, tasting him with her tongue. He positioned her so that she straddled his thighs and stroked her, watching her face as she felt exquisite pleasure build at his gentle touch. She felt her body tightened and clench; she leaned back but he caught her by clamping hands around her hips and he drove himself inside her.

She gasped, then shuddered as her muscles rippled, pleasure and passion taking over for any conscious actions. As she leaned forward, she felt a swelling motion of his body; she felt the explosion of his orgasm, and heard him say one word.

She smiled, love apparent on her face.

A little later, he held her in his arms. "Loving you makes me the happiest man in the world."

"Oh, Gilbert," she whispered. Her heart filled with true joy; her mind was calm. She laughed, a sound he felt with his body and heard with his ears, one that warmed all the places deep inside him.

He would have laughed with her, but he much preferred to kiss her instead.

_The End _**(Please review!)**

_El Final _**(A honeymoon story? Review!)**

_La Fin _**(Grissom in Paris? Review!)**

_La Conclusione _**(Another story? Yes, its blackmail--review!)**

**Thanks to the loyal, wonderful readers who review and keep us encouraged! Let us know if you liked this one!)**


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